


Teapot

by IamShadow21, kath_ballantyne



Series: Teapot 'verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Auror Harry, Auror Partners, Auror Training, Aurors, Baby Teddy Lupin, Boss/Employee Relationship, Break Up, Brothers, Canon Gay Character, Canonical Character Death, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Coming Out, Depression, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Fanart, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Het and Slash, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Battle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realization, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scars, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Summer, Teapot 'verse, The Daily Prophet, Touch Aversion, Twins, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weasley Family, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-18
Updated: 2008-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 68,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/pseuds/kath_ballantyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry and the Weasleys slowly begin to rebuild their lives. However, despite the eradication of Voldemort, shadows of Harry's past threatens to overtake his present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miss Him

**Author's Note:**

> This began life as a series of prequel fics set several years before [Tea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113323) and [Apples](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113367). Though, chronologically, this comes first, I think the story works better if you read those two first, much like a prologue set in the future gives you context for a novel set in the past. This story has a lot of pain, a lot of grief, and a lot of trials for the protagonists, and I think that is easier borne when it is read the way that I wrote it - with Tea and Apples in the future, this past has a hopeful future at the end. There is always a dawn after the darkness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron decides it's time to talk to George.  
>  _Set approximately one month after The Battle of Hogwarts_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. What you haven't known up until this point is that I am EVIL. I am like the witch in the gingerbread cottage. I lured you in with the tea and apples, and now I am BITCHSLAPPING YOU with MAJOR ANGST. 
> 
> (Please stick with it though. There is some comfort too. Promise.)
> 
> I'm sorry, but people asked for prequels and when I went fishing for plot bunnies this is what bit. It is set probably at the most a month after the events at the end of DH proper. *conveniently ignores epilogue* 
> 
> This isn't in the wandering style of Tea and Apples. It's composed of two scenes; one short, one long. The second in particular is fairly dialogue heavy. The reason for the difference is that there was way too much detail to cover to make this just a little moment in another musing fic. I felt when I composed it that it was pretty vital to how Ron and George's relationship is developing now that they're adults to get the full picture of what went down. 
> 
> There are also four sentences of JKR's dialogue reproduced verbatim, and now you all know about it, so consider this fic disclaimered.
> 
> Again, concrit is welcome and comments and recs are love.

“I just don’t know what to do, Arthur.”

I’d been walking down to the kitchen for an after-lunch before-afternoon-tea snack, but the quaver in Mum’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Shhh,” came Dad’s voice, soothing. I could see in my mind’s eye him holding her, stroking her hair. “He’ll come around. Just give him time.”

Mum’s breaths were shuddering and gasping. Most days I saw her crying, or at least recognised the traces of it on her face. “He’s…he’s hurting so much…but he won’t…he won’t let me near. I can’t…” She dissolved into quiet, painful sobs that were somehow worse than if she had howled. Dad was murmuring gentle, indecipherable words; his voice slightly tight as if he were holding back tears himself.

My appetite was gone.

**********************************

I tapped on the door. There wasn’t any answer, but I didn’t really expect one, so I opened it anyway and stepped inside.

He was sitting and staring out of the window. He didn't even turn his head to see who’d entered. The clothes he was wearing were rumpled and creased, as if he’d slept in them, and there was a slightly sour smell in the room like unwashed linen. Not surprising, considering he’d only left it to use the toilet and pick disinterestedly at the odd meal over the past few weeks.

A growing pile of paperwork was heaped on the desk. Order forms. I’d taken some of them away to process about a fortnight ago when it became obvious he wasn’t keeping up with demand. Now it seemed, from the depth of the stack, he’d given up altogether. Most of the mail wasn’t even opened, and some had slid off to form a drift of parchment on the rug.

“George,” I began. He didn’t move, and I shifted uneasily. “George?”

“What do you want?” His voice was flat, almost bored. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

“Ummm…well…Mum wanted to know if you were coming down for dinner.” 

“Tell her I’m not hungry.”

I cleared my throat, as if that could erase some of the nervousness about what I planned to do. “You should come down for dinner.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“To stop you starving to death.” I was only half joking. The jumper he was wearing in spite of the heat hung on his frame in loose folds.

“I don’t want dinner. I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.” 

It was a very firm dismissal. I ignored it. 

“Mum was crying again earlier.”

He shrugged. “Part of the _grieving process_.” The last two words were heavy with sarcasm.

“She wasn’t crying about Fred,” I stated bluntly. He flinched as if I’d stuck him with a pin. “She was crying about _you_.”

George turned at this and his eyes met mine for the first time. The bold letter **F** on the jumper he was wearing burned me like a brand.

I swallowed. “We’re all worried about you, mate.”

“I don’t _need_ anyone worrying about me,” he retorted. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Except you look like shit and you haven’t said more than two words together to anyone in a week. Oh, and you stink,” I added, as if commenting on the weather.

He pointedly ignored my opinions on his personal hygiene and appearance. “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Not really.”

He was starting to get frustrated with me. It was better than the apathy. “Look, what do you want from me?” George snapped. “Some kind of big display? Screaming and moaning and rending of garments?”

“ _Yes!_ ” I shouted. “I want you to _do_ something. I want you to do _anything_ but stare out of that bloody window.”

“You don’t understand,” he said coolly, folding his arms across his chest.

Anger and grief were pumping in equal measure through me now and I had gone too far to stop, even if I’d wanted to. “Oh, yeah? Try me! You might just be surprised,” I spat. “He was my brother too, not just yours! I miss him as much as you do!” 

It was the tipping point. I saw it, as if in slow motion, in the flash of fury in his eyes. Even so, it was a shock how quickly he was on his feet and in front of me. The doorframe hit my back and my ears began to ring. When pain blossomed across my jaw a moment later I realised he’d hit me. I hadn’t even seen him raise his fist.

“ _Miss him? Miss him?!_ ” he was yelling in my face. “You don’t have a _fucking clue_ what that means! He was me and I was him and we were _us_.” Tears of rage and agony were flowing down his cheeks unchecked now. “Now I’m _me_. Do you have any idea what that’s like? _I don’t know who I am!_ ”

George slumped heavily on the edge of the bed as if his legs could no longer support him.

“What’s going on?” Ginny whispered worriedly from somewhere behind me.

“Nothing,” I said in an undertone. “Just go and help Mum or something.”

“But what-”

“It’s okay,” I said, glancing at her. She seemed a little alarmed as she scanned my face. One of her hands unconsciously brushed her own jaw line. “I’m fine,” I tried to reassure her. “We just need a bit more time.” Ginny looked sceptical, but she nodded and vanished. 

I sat down next to George, a bit lost for words. I hadn’t really planned past the point of getting him angry enough to shout and my head was a bit fuzzy now. I gingerly felt my each of my teeth with my tongue. They seemed intact, even if I could taste my own blood.

“I wasn’t there,” he murmured suddenly. “ _You_ were there. You and Harry and Hermione and bloody Percy. He _died_ and I didn’t know. I didn’t _feel_ anything. I should have felt _something_.” George took a deep, strangled breath and continued. “He died. He was the other half of me and he died, and _your_ other half lived.” 

He flapped his hand aimlessly. “The way you look at each other at the dinner table. The little smiles and jokes that only you two understand. I can’t bear it.” He clumsily rubbed at his wet face, smearing his tears like a child. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault.”

“But Hermione’s been in Australia for over a week now,” I said gently. “Come on. At least stick your head in to let Mum know I haven’t chucked you out the window.”

George gave a little chuckle, but his eyes were still sad. “Hermione? Give us some credit. We worked it out years ago. Well, Fred did, actually. But it made a lot of sense, all things considered.”

“Wh…what? What things considered?” George had just said Fred’s name for the first time in weeks but it didn’t really register because I was officially completely lost. “What the bloody hell are you on about?”

“Well…you and Harry,” George said slowly, as if I couldn’t speak English.

“Me and Har…? Wha…?” I felt all the blood drain from my face. 

“It was pretty obvious actually,” George continued with a horrible, oblivious momentum. “Especially after the Triwizard Tournament.”

The ringing in my ears was back louder than ever. “The…the what?” I heard myself ask.

“The Second Task. ‘The Thing You’ll Miss The Most’ and all that.” George sounded smug. “Well, it wasn’t _Ginny_ Harry had to fish out of the Lake now, was it?” 

I was suddenly babbling something about being friends. Then I babbled much more about girls. About liking girls. I was talking at a very rapid pace and gesticulating a little wildly. My brain had broken and all sorts of things were pouring out of it unchecked. 

“…Victor Krum doesn’t count. He plays _Quidditch_. Everyone likes Quidditch players. I kissed Hermione. Did you know that? And Lavender. I kissed Lavender a lot. More than a lot. Very much…”

I didn’t stop until he took me by the shoulders and shook me firmly. “ _Hey!_ Snap out of it. It doesn’t matter. Honestly.” 

I was looking anywhere but at George. Now it was him making an effort to get my attention as I tried desperately to escape reality.

“Ron. _Ron!_ ” George’s hand on the uninjured side of my face forced my gaze back to his. He stared directly into my eyes for what seemed like the longest time, blinked, then paled. 

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, shit. You didn’t know. You hadn’t realised.”

I think I moaned softly in despair. I shut my eyes.

 _“Presumption! Who would look at you?"_ the ghost of the Horcrux whispered in my head. _“Who could look at you, beside Harry Potter?”_

Beside Harry Potter.

 _“Who wouldn’t prefer him, what woman would take you?”_ it had mocked. 

Prefer him.

_“You are nothing, nothing, nothing to him.”_

Nothing to him. _Nothing._

George’s arm was around me and my head was resting on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I really am. We thought…I thought you knew. I thought you’d known for ages. I just figured you weren’t ready to tell us yet.”

“I…I don’t want to talk about it,” I said thickly.

“You can hit me, if you like,” he offered. I straightened up. There was a crooked smile on his face. “Really. I deserve it.”

I shook my head. “Come to dinner. Please.”

George seemed to war against the urge to say no. In the end, he nodded. “Let me fix that bruise first,” he compromised, picking up his wand. “If I don’t, I’ll never get out of Mum’s bad books.”


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a hot day, and Ron doesn't want to do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another return to the meandering style of Tea and Apples. However it's another prequel - set only a short time after Miss Him, so don't expect loads of happy.

Summer heat has wrapped the Burrow in a stifling blanket. There isn’t any possible place to go to escape it. I’m stretched out on my bed, waiting for the small relief nightfall will bring. My t-shirt is clinging unpleasantly in all sorts of places and every breath seems to take a ridiculous amount of effort.

A pathetic sound echoes from below and to the right of me. It takes a long time to summon the energy but eventually I roll onto my side and look down.

“Ron?”

I hear a whimpering noise that I take as a reply.

“We could go downstairs. The floor is stone down there. It might be cooler.”

“Uh uh,” he grunts. “Mum. She’ll make me put clothes on.”

Ron is stretched out limply on the bare boards wearing nothing but his boxers. 

“We could go swimming,” I suggest, thinking of the chilly, murky depths of the pond.

“Sunburn,” he grumbles in response.

Two days ago we’d spent most of the daylight hours in the pond. Not actually swimming, of course. I swallowed more muddy water than I cared to think about when Ron took it upon himself to throw me in while I was still undressing. 

“This means war!” I declared, once I’d cleared my mouth of muck and my hair of pondweed. Afterwards we sat in the shallows until being called in to dinner.

The result? My nose and the back of my neck were slightly hot and sensitive. Ron, however, was pink and raw from head to toe. His skin seemed to glow with a light of its own. 

“Not funny,” he moaned, as Ginny openly sniggered. He muttered a word at her in response that earned him a very sharp look from his mother.

“Just for that, Ronald Weasley, you can wait until I’ve finished serving! Maybe that will teach you to hold your tongue rather than use that sort of language in my kitchen.”

Ron promptly displayed the anguished features of a martyr to Mrs Weasley, who was unmoved. When she turned back to her pots and pans, Ron directed a very rude hand gesture at Ginny, which she returned, giggling unashamedly.

The obvious pain he was suffering even prompted George, when he appeared, to make a brief return to form by slapping him heartily on the back. Ron had roared deafeningly and chased his older brother around the kitchen, and for a good ten minutes everyone seemed to forget there had been a war. 

That was until Ginny unthinkingly set the table with one plate too many. 

When she noticed her blunder, she looked as though she might be sick. George’s animated face became closed again and he excused himself quietly to go to his room. 

“George!” Ron implored. He made to follow but stopped when the sudden movement made him hiss with pain. 

“Let’s get that mended.” Mrs Weasley had fixed a smile on her face but she sniffed a little, as though she were developing a cold, while she passed her wand over Ron’s stinging flesh. 

George didn’t reappear until late in the evening to eat his reheated meal alone, but he did reappear. It was better than it had been.

I’m starting to get a crick in my neck, so I slide from the bed to sit cross-legged beside Ron’s prostrate form. His eyes open just a fraction.

“I miss the swarms of Dementors,” he moans. “They made me bloody miserable, but at least it wasn’t so hot.”

I snort and am gratified to receive a weak grin in return. I had laughed without thinking and it was obviously a good day, despite the heat. Only a few short weeks ago, he wouldn’t have made a joke at all.

Just when George had started venturing from his room for the first time in over a month, Ron went into a slump of his own. Overnight he became somehow brittle. At first I thought I’d done something wrong.

“Nah, mate,” he said with something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Just, you know, working some stuff out. Thinking.”

“Oh. Okay then.” I hadn’t wanted to press him further. 

Trapped in the volatile cauldron that was the Burrow just after the Battle of Hogwarts I felt simultaneously like I was home but also horribly uncomfortable and guilty. I’d liked Fred, but I didn’t have the deep relationship the other Weasleys had had with him. I was an outsider here, intruding on their grief. There were days when Ron’s good humour would be dulled completely and it was almost like being back in that tent again in the woods. I would catch myself glancing at his neck expecting to see the Horcrux hanging there.

Ron spent a lot of time with George. They were catching up with the backlog of Wheezes orders, and making preparations for the eventual reopening of the Diagon Alley shop front.

“I would have thought you’d be going back to Hogwarts to get your NEWTs with Hermione,” I said, and was surprised to see Ron flinch a little. His reaction confused me. 

_Is he having second thoughts about Hermione?_

“I don’t think I’ll bother,” he said, attempting to sound casual and sounding nervous instead. 

_He must be. I realised suddenly. Blimey, I never thought I’d see that happen._

“Besides,” he continued more enthusiastically, “I think George wants me to help, you know, when the shop opens again.”

I quickly forced a smile onto my face that I hoped was more convincing than Ron’s had been. His and Hermione’s relationship was none of my business. “That’s great!”

Ron seemed relieved and continued, elaborating some of the plans he and George had been making, and the awkward moment had passed.

I was uncomfortable sitting on the hard wood but Ron wasn’t showing any signs of wanting to move. As much as I shifted and fidgeted, the boards dug painfully into the base of my pelvis and tailbone and they weren’t getting any softer.

I’d been informed bluntly by Ron that I was the owner of the world’s boniest arse a week ago. I’d slipped on a Quidditch magazine he’d left in the middle of the room and fallen right back onto him where he was stretched out on the bed.

“Gerroff!” he yelped, shoving me onto the floor roughly, looking pained as he rubbed his injured thighs.

“Sorry…” I said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean…it was an accident…”

That hadn’t been a good day. Ron had glared at me, picked up his abused magazine and turned to lie facing the wall to read it. I’d left after about ten minutes. I couldn’t stand the silence. 

After about an hour, he came to find me and apologised for overreacting. 

“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I understand. It’s a hard time for you. For both of us.”

Ron had looked away and flushed hotly, embarrassed. I quickly turned the conversation to safer topics. He was never that comfortable talking about his feelings and I didn’t know if I could really deal with it if he wanted to talk about anything. The events of the past year were still fresh in all our minds.

My arse is going numb and I’m bored out of my skull so I reach out and grab his arm. 

“Come on, you miserable git. Let’s go and sit out in the orchard or something, under the trees.”

An angry grumble is his only response. I sigh, and slump my shoulders.

Ron’s wrist is still in my loosely clasped hand. His skin is trying to expend heat from every inch. Under my thumb I can feel his pulse tapping away like a baby bird escaping an egg. My fingertips rest on a raised and marbled line; I stroke it with my index finger idly and Ron sucks in a sharp breath. I glance at his face – his eyes are wide and alarmed – and then quickly down at the patch of skin my fingertips rest on.

“Oh, shit,” I exclaim, dropping Ron’s arm as if it burned me. “Your scars…I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No!” Ron squeaks, too quickly and forcefully.

“Are they bothering you? Maybe your Mum should take a look…” I reach for his arm again and he snatches it back out of my reach. Then he’s on his feet and through the door with remarkable speed for someone complaining of heat stroke.

“Shower,” he mumbles mostly to himself before disappearing from sight completely. “Cold shower. Yes.”


	3. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is hiding more than one thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece was made using a scene I'd pictured initially as part of Heat, but when I wrote Heat it just didn't belong. So it's itself, all alone. It's set after Heat, before the end of July. (This is to fit around JKR's statement that Harry began working as an Auror at the age of seventeen rather than finishing his education at Hogwarts.)
> 
> Much thanks also to my long-suffering partner kath_ballantyne, who produced the gorgeous drawing after a very long day out in the (almost) summer heat.

Cool cloth slides over my head and enfolds me gently, like a second, looser skin. It’s made of cotton, old and washed to softness, and where it touches me it almost feels like a caress. Whatever I wear, comfort is the key.

Hermione long ago despaired of me dressing in anything more formal than jeans and a t-shirt when I was out of school uniform. I had made only a handful of exceptions in all the years I had known her; the Yule Ball (which had been a monumental disaster in all possible ways) and Bill and Fleur’s wedding (which had been an act of self-preservation). Then, more recently, there had been Fred’s funeral and all the other funerals I had sleepwalked through in the week or two following the battle of Hogwarts.

 _Not thinking about that today_ , I tell myself, my lips pressing into a firm line. I comb my damp hair quickly with my fingers. _Neat enough_. 

There’s a list on my bedside table that I pick up and start reading through, double-checking, triple-checking. Though everything on it is ticked off or ready to go, I still can’t help but feel that something has to go horribly wrong. I’m waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

Harry sweeps rather impressively into the room and I can’t help but feel a little flutter of something indescribable; a twist of emotions ranging from desire to faint jealousy. He started work as a Junior Auror with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement only a little over a week ago and he wears the robes like he was born to them.

Harry rarely dressed or undressed in front of me. He was always private that way, back at school. He’d dress in the cubicles in the dormitories or wait in the Quidditch sheds until most people had left or were in the showers themselves. Here, he took all his clothes into the bathroom with him and dressed before returning. Despite sharing a room with him, I hardly ever saw more of Harry than his bare chest, and only when if for some reason he had to change his shirt in a hurry or we went swimming.

I didn’t know whether I felt relieved or chagrined at his modesty. On one hand, there was less chance of him catching me openly ogling his form, and I was pretty sure it was what helped me keep my cold showers down to one or two a day. On the other, what glimpses of skin I _did_ catch tended to affect me far more than they should’ve been able to. 

Just yesterday evening he’d reached up for something on top of the wardrobe and the action had made his t-shirt creep up. That pale inch of skin had to have been about the most erotic thing I’d ever seen. Fantasising for several hours about touching and licking it reduced the duration of that night’s furtive wank to a few rough, desperate strokes with an intense conclusion.

“Are you all right?” Harry is looking at me, his brow slightly furrowed. I realise I’ve been lost in my own very private thoughts. Again.

“Yeah. Yeah! Fine,” I gabble. I sound like an idiot.

“Are you going to be okay today?” he asks. I nod a little overenthusiastically, then try and pull myself together.

Today I have to be focussed. Today I have to not think about Fred or Hermione or that little crease Harry gets between his eyebrows when he’s concerned about something, like he is _right now_. Today is the Grand Reopening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley and I have to be the strong one. I have to be able to take control and stay cool and hold it together for George. It won’t do any good if I’m having a breakdown from nerves in the back room or staring off as if I’ve taken one of Wheezes’ own Daydream Charms.

Harry continues to look a little confused. “Er…Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

I bristle slightly. “What’s wrong with it?” 

My voice sounds more aggressive than I meant it to, but I am annoyed. Since when did _everyone_ want to dress me up? And _Harry_! As fabulous as Harry looked in those new robes; the way they hung in some places and fitted tightly in others…he dressed just as casually as I did when he wasn’t working! And this was hardly as bad as some of the cast-offs Harry himself had had to wear, over the years.

Harry’s eyes widen a little. “Er…nothing. Honestly. I just thought George had bought something for you. To wear, that is. For the shop.”

I feel my face heat a little. “Oh. I…I can’t wear the shirt yet. George said it would be okay…for a while…if I wore normal clothes. I mean, people can tell I’m staff by my hair anyway, right?”

Harry looks confused. “What’s wrong with the shirt? I saw you try it on a couple of days ago.”

I wince, and my hands automatically move to grip my forearms across my body. “It’s too rough,” I say, quietly. “The fabric. Mum’ll have to wash it a bunch of times first. My scars…” I trail off, and shrug.

“Oh.” Harry looked slightly guilty.

The marks on my arms from the brain in the Department of Mysteries were healed, but would always be visible. They twisted up my limbs in ribbons of raised flesh, twining and interlacing with each other, a permanent reminder of that night. The scars were oddly textured, like burns, and the skin was delicate and easily damaged. New clothes or rough fabrics could abrade it or even tear it open to weep clear fluid like tears, and it didn’t heal easily.

“Why that, though?” Harry presses.

I shrug again. “…’s comfortable.”

“You’ll boil,” Harry says, sensibly. “It’s going to be hot enough today as it is, but if the crowds in the shop are half as big as I think they’ll be, you’re going to be sweating a river. Why don’t you just wear a Cannons t-shirt or something?”

I tug on the cuff my long sleeved shirt miserably, looking at the floor. “People stare at them. The scars. I hate it.” 

Harry is close to me. I can hear his breathing as he reaches out to slide the sleeve up my arm, exposing the map of lines, and gently trace one with his finger. I think I stop breathing altogether. 

“You got them in battle,” he says gently. “You should-”

“What?” I ask quietly, without malice, but with a small, knowing smile. “Show them off? Be proud of them?” My other hand has drifted up of its own accord to slowly brush back the dark fringe, exposing the red, jagged mark. I delicately rub it with my thumb.

The core of me at that moment is singing with something so close to pain or pleasure I can’t tell the difference. Those deep green eyes are focussed on me and only me. I can hear my own breaths, fast and shallow, out of time with his. 

It feels so natural, right at that moment, to slide my hand around to the nape of his neck, pull him in close to press his body against mine and kiss those perfect red lips. 

But I don’t. 

Today is a day for strength. My hand drops back to my side.

Harry blinks as if he’s just been Confunded. 

“Er…okay. Fair point.” He steps away, rummages in the bedside table for a moment, pulls out a comb and swipes it quickly across his head before turning back to face me. His scar is neatly framed by the black locks. Blatantly, obviously on display.

“There,” he says “One day. I show my scar and you show yours. Do this, and I’ll never mention it again. Deal?”

I swallow hard. Harry’s cheeks are flushed and he’s panting a little, though he hasn’t done anything energetic. Those red lips are parted and that willpower I’m clinging to is seriously slipping. Right at that moment, I’d agree to anything.

“Deal.”

The smile that bursts across Harry’s face threatens to undo me completely. “I’ve got to go,” he says quickly. “I’ll see you around lunch, eh? If I can get away.”

“Yeah, all right.”

Then Harry is gone in another flourish of robes, and George is bellowing for me to hurry the hell up from downstairs. I ease the long sleeved shirt over my head and rummage through the chest of drawers for my favourite Cannons t-shirt.


	4. One Month, Three Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is at Hogwarts away from her boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very different format for this one, but I think I achieved what I wanted to. In all my other fics so far, Hermione was only appearing to turn up and lecture the boys. As funny as that can be, I wanted to make her a bit more three dimensional - but how to do it? So I took a leaf out of the shoebox_project's book and wrote some (mostly one-sided) correspondence. Unlike the others in this series so far, this one won't make as much sense if you haven't read the previous ones.

9:30pm Thursday 3rd September  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland

Dear Ron,

I saw the _Daily Prophet_ article at breakfast yesterday, I’m so proud of you! Congratulations aside, I’ve had to confiscate half a dozen Wheezes products already and a First Year testing his Skiving Snackbox in the Common Room this evening vomited on my shoes. I can’t help but feel that the fact that my boyfriend making and selling the rotten things is tarnishing my image as Head Girl.

I imagine you’ll have to decide whether to hire more staff. You and George can hardly be keeping up with demand on your own. And you’re not to bully Harry into helping! He’s got more than enough to deal with without being press-ganged into making fake wands and itching powder. Being an Auror sounds ghastly, I can’t imagine why he’d want to be one after everything. His letter yesterday was barely more than half a dozen sentences and reading between the lines he sounds exhausted. Keep an eye on him, would you? And don’t let him sweet-talk you! If he’s stretching himself too far, get him to take a day off, even if you have to put him in a Full-Body Bind while he’s sleeping. 

Neville is Head Boy, did you know? I imagine he wrote you. His grandmother was going to buy him a Firebolt, she was so proud, but Neville wanted a _Comptonia subluceo_ instead. (Don’t give me that look, Ron. It’s a magical Sweetfern from America that glows in the dark, which you’d know if you’d ever paid attention in Herbology. Or Potions, for that matter.)

Everything’s mad here. The Years are all mixed up because so many people missed last year completely or are repeating, and so many others haven’t come back at all. Lavender’s still in St Mungo’s and the Patil twins are finishing at Beaubatons, so I’m sharing my dormitory with Ginny and some other girls that were in the year below ours, before. 

(Oh, Ron, tell Harry to write Ginny. _Quickly._ When she saw I’d got a letter from him and she hadn’t yet…Well, let’s just say that if Harry doesn’t send her an owl soon, she’ll probably send him a Howler.)

There are still whole sections of the school that are unsafe. A lot of classes are being held in the library or in corners of the Great Hall while repairs are being done. It must be costing an absolute _fortune_ in Galleons. Resetting the defensive wards alone before the start of term probably took weeks and a team of specialists. I know the Ministry is bearing some of the brunt of it, but still. 

It’s ever so lonely without you here. You and Harry. Having the other DA members helps, though. We’re official now, too! Professor McGonagall announced it and everything. The Room of Requirement doesn’t seem to be working anymore, and I don’t think they’ll try to repair it after what Malfoy used it for, so one of the old classrooms is going to be fitted out for us. 

Anyway, I’ve still got seven inches to write for History of Magic. I’m finding it ridiculously hard to concentrate without you and Harry here bothering me with questions and trying to copy from me.

Your Hermione.

P.S. Do you think that George would be able to run the shop alone for a day or two when the first Hogsmeade weekend comes up? I’d love to see you. I’ll owl you as soon as I know the date.

***********************************

12:37pm Saturday 19th September, 1998  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland

Dear Harry,

Thank you _so much_ for that book! Even second hand, I really hate to think what you and Ron must have spent to find a copy in that good condition. And it’s the _new edition_! It’s going to make writing my Charms essays so much easier now I don’t have to rely on the Library copy being in when I need to cross reference something. 

Even without you two here, today was wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a lovely birthday at Hogwarts. Ginny woke me early because there were half a dozen owls with presents lined up waiting. The girls in my dormitory bought me something too, which was unexpected, but very sweet. I don’t think Lavender or Pavarti even knew when my birthday was. It’s a beautiful blue lace shawl with a hat to match, for nice. One of the girls’ aunts is a milliner, and they managed to order it and get it owled to the school and hide it, and I never even knew.

Do you think you could find out from Ron if the sweets George sent are safe to eat? They _look_ normal enough, and they were beautifully wrapped, but I can’t help being more than a little suspicious. Ginny said she thinks they’re fine but she wouldn’t take one when I offered, and I refuse to follow her rather ruthless suggestion and ‘test’ them on a younger student. Honestly, I have no idea how half the Weasleys weren’t sorted into in Slytherin. I’ve decided that the prolific nature of the family must balance out their Machiavellian sensibilities somehow; otherwise, I doubt there’d be any of them left.

Thank you again for the book. Give everyone my love. 

Hermione.

P.S. I know you’re incredibly busy at work from what I’ve read in the papers, but would you be able to do something for me? I’d do it myself, but I really can’t take the time off to go to London right now. Do you know who’s in charge of the recovered items from the raid on Malfoy Manor? It’s just that my new wand, though it works well enough, just isn’t as, well, _me_ as I’d like. Does that make any sense? I really miss my old one from Ollivander’s. Would it be too much trouble to find out if there’s a vine wood wand on the inventory? Thank you.

P.P.S. Tell Ron to get his act together and write to me! A few lines about the Cannons signings for the new season on the back of a Wheezes product list does _not_ a letter make! If he doesn’t send a _proper_ letter on fresh parchment (without tea or grease stains) in the next week, I’m sending him a Howler. At work.

***********************************

(Written on creased parchment which was stuffed roughly into a reused envelope. Undated, but received by Hermione Granger at breakfast in the Great Hall on Friday 2nd October, 1998.)

Bloody hell Hermione, that was LOUD. My ears were ringing for TWO DAYS, and George still hasn’t shut up about it. He keeps _quoting_ it at me. This from the prat who claims he can’t hear the little bell on the shop door when a customer comes in. 

George wanted to know if you liked the sweets. I told him you didn’t like sugary stuff, but he sent them anyway. If you haven’t opened them yet, I’d give one to Ginny first, then tell her they’re from him and watch the colour she turns. It’s _brilliant_. (There’s nothing wrong with them, by the way. They’re Honeydukes, George just wanted to wrap them up differently to make you nervous.)

Ron

P.S. About Hogsmeade, I don’t think I’m going to be able to come. We’ve got a new girl working in the shop, and she’s absolute rubbish. I don’t know why George hired her, really. So we’re having to watch her to make sure she doesn’t bollocks things up too much AND work on the new line that’s supposed to be ready for Hallowe’en. I guess I’ll see you at Christmas, then, yeah?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Americans who read this may know about the existence of sweetfern, but those outside the States probably don't. Sweetfern, or Comptonia peregrina, is not a true fern. It's the only plant of its genus, and fossils found suggest it once had a much broader spread across the Northern Hemisphere.
> 
>  
> 
> Sweetfern is also known as 'redneck reefer' because it can produce a mild high when smoked (though that's not the reason Neville wanted one).
> 
>  
> 
> Comptonia subluceo doesn't exist in the Muggle world. Subluceo is Latin, meaning "to gleam faintly, glimmer, glow".


	5. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron behaving badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one big, dialogue heavy scene this time. Mid October.

“What the _hell_ is your problem?!”

Ron is sitting on the bed, legs stretched out, looking sullen. His expression might be fitting on the face of a stubborn five-year-old, but on a man of eighteen it looks ridiculously childish. He shrugs defiantly.

I take a slow, deep breath through my teeth and try to resist the urge to hit him. Even still, I’m thinking very hard about the wand tucked in my sleeve. “Let me get this straight,” I begin, in a tight, quiet voice. “You get into a fight with Sophie-”

Ron goes to open his mouth. I hold up one finger firmly. My patience is very thin. He subsides.

“You get into a fight with Sophie. In the store, during trading hours, in front of customers.”

“It was her fault,” he snaps, unable to control himself. “I told her to place that order for Nudibranch eggs _weeks_ ago and she-”

“You shout at her, you humiliate her and then you _fire_ her in front of a crowd of people.”

Ron is turning a dark shade of crimson and is on his feet. “Because of her, the Slug Gums won’t be ready in anywhere _near_ enough time for Hallowe’en. We’ll be lucky if they’re done in time for _Christmas_!”

“You fire her-”

“That air-headed little _bint_ just cost us hundreds of Galleons! All because she couldn’t owl a letter. I swear George only hired her because she had a huge pair of-”

“Yes, let’s talk about George,” I cut in, with a deadly sort of calm. “Let’s talk about him coming back from his lunch break to find his shop assistant in hysterics and his little brother barging past him out the door.”

Ron has stilled. There’s a tension in the room, an oppressive thickening like atmospheric pressure before a storm.

“He sat there for _an hour_ calming down Sophie enough so that she could Apparate home without splinching herself. Then he _closed the shop_ to come and find me at work!”

Ron blinks. “He _what?!_ ”

I lose my temper and begin to shout again. “Yes, he came to me! Which you might have guessed he would, if you had a grain of sense! What else did you expect him to do when you have a tantrum, quit the Wheezes and storm out!”

His eyes are wide with alarm and he’s on his feet. “I didn’t-!”

“What was it you said to him?” My voice is steely. “ ‘To hell with this. You’re welcome to it. I’ve had enough.’ ”

Ron pales to the colour of whey.

“But…but I didn’t mean it like that! I swear! I was just-”

I really want to hit him. “What the hell else was he supposed to think?!”

“I was _angry_!” he shouted back. “That dozy _cow-_ ”

“Oh, leave Sophie out of this,” I snarl. “This has _nothing_ to do with her! You’ve been acting like a right prat for weeks now! Do you think George would have taken you seriously otherwise? We’ve all been walking on eggshells trying not to set you off, and _I’ve had enough!_ Whatever it is that’s going on with you, whatever problem you’re having with Hermione, _deal with it._ ”

Ron’s face has closed, and his arms fold across in front of him, the livid welts glowing against the pale skin. “It’s none of your business.”

My lip curls. “ _Fine!_ If this is the way it’s going to be, you can make yourself miserable and leave me out of it!”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m moving my stuff into Percy’s old room. Tonight. As soon as I finish work. Unless you tell me what your _fucking problem is!_ ” 

I never thought I’d look at Ron with disgust, but I am. He’s matching it with his own look of contempt towards me.

“You really want to know?” he shouts. Ron takes a step towards me, and my wand is out and trained on him without even having to think. He doesn’t even look at it and takes another step, and I have to bend my right arm slightly to prevent his forward motion putting too much pressure on it. The tip ends up under his chin, and he still hasn’t looked down at the weapon once. 

I am suddenly incredibly aware of how large and menacing Ron is when he’s angry, the way his temper swells to fill a space and expand him. 

_I am afraid of him_ , my brain decides to recognise at that moment.

His eyes are burning intensely into mine. “You really want to know?” he asks again, more quietly.

“Yes.”

Ron’s hands clamp around my upper arms in a tight, painful grip. His body crushes my wand arm against my chest and before I can think to struggle he’s _kissing me_. His lips are hard and wet and soft against mine and his body is hot and my arms where he’s holding me hurt and there’s a sort of thrumming ache deep in my chest and he’s shoving me away…

I stumble and nearly fall. Ron is panting and his eyes are locked with mine and there’s nothing there but fury and torment and something that might be hatred.

“Now get the _fuck out!_ ” he yells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that you'll care, after that, but a [Nudibranch](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nudibranch) is a Sea Slug. They are amongst the most vibrantly coloured creatures on the planet.
> 
> The Slug Gums (my invention) I imagined as being a gag sweet that has the same effect as Ron's backfiring curse had in his Second Year - it would make the eater vomit slugs.


	6. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. Oh dear. Oh No!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two points of view, plus one letter. Takes place immediately after Miscommunication.

Harry is gone. There is a distinctly Harry-shaped space in the air right there in front of me where he had stood, pale and horrified, gaping. The fingertips of one hand had brushed his lips unconsciously; his wand forgotten, held limply in the other. Then he had fled.

I was glad later that Mum was visiting Shell Cottage that day and I was alone in the house. I shouted. I yelled. I swore as foully as I could at the top of my lungs. I punched the wall so hard bruises flowered instantly and the skin split on my knuckles. And none of it could erase what it felt like to be that close, to be that _intimate_ with him. 

After screaming myself hoarse, I ended up sitting on the edge of my bed, head in my throbbing and bleeding hands, utterly desolate. “You _fucking_ moron,” I whispered to myself. “You total _cunt_. You absolute and utter _bastard_.”

*********************************

I don’t trust my shattered nerves enough to Apparate. I Floo back to the Ministry in a daze, stumbling out into the Atrium clumsily. 

_Ron holding me hard enough to bruise…Ron’s lips crushing mine…Ron’s eyes agonised and loathing…_

My supervisor, Auror Campester, is waiting for me when I step out of the elevator, hands on hips, face stern. “I _presume_ ,” he begins in an even tone, “that you have a _very_ good reason indeed for taking off in the middle of your shift?”

I clear my throat. “Family emergency. Sir.”

His eyes narrow. “Family emergency?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Very well.” He seems far from convinced. “Do you like being a Junior Auror, Potter?”

I am slightly thrown by the sudden change in direction. “Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Good. You have an aptitude for the role, or we wouldn’t have hired you.”

“Er…thank you, Sir.”

“Now, let me make myself perfectly clear. The next time you have a _family emergency_ , you come and see _me_. And _if_ I consider your reason a valid one, then _and only then_ do you leave this building. Pull another little stunt like the one today, and you’re fired. I don’t care what you did in the war or who your friends are. I will not suffer insubordination in my ranks. Understood?”

My throat is dry; I have to swallow before I can answer. “Yes, Sir.”

He walks away without another word. My desk is piled with parchment that is covered in nonsensical jumbles of words, and I know it’s going take me all afternoon and into the evening to process. 

I take a deep breath and stare at a Banned Imports list as though it holds the answers, before scribbling a quick note to George.

_The git is at home. I think something I did just made him more angry, so don’t expect him back at the shop today. Sorry._

_Could you let your Mum know I’m working late and I won’t be home for dinner? Thanks._

_Harry_

I tuck it into a hastily addressed envelope, which I seal and place in my “outgoing mail” tray. The letter glows briefly, before vanishing. It’ll reappear in the Ministry Mail Centre and be on its way to George by owl within a matter of moments.

I throw myself into my work. It’s deathly dull; checking and reviewing case notes on known suspects and old trials to get a grasp of the legal process. I have to take notes and memorise all the important and intricate facts so that I can answer correctly when quizzed on them by my superiors at any time. 

As hard as I push the fight with Ron to the back of my mind, it won’t stay there, insidiously creeping into my thoughts, distracting me and frustrating my efforts.

_Ron’s eyes scorching me. “You really want to know?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He leans in, close…_

“Still here, Potter?” Campester is standing in the darkened doorway to his office, his travelling cloak on and a briefcase in one hand. There’s a little crease between his eyebrows and he’s frowning, though not angrily.

“Um, yes. Sir.”

“It’s nearly ten. Go home.”

“But Sir, I haven’t finish-” I protest.

“It’ll still be there in the morning. Go home and get some sleep.”

“Yes, Sir,” I concede.

“Good night, Potter,” he says, nodding at me, looking somehow satisfied.

“Good night, Sir,” I reply, my voice heavy with resignation. 

I can no longer hide at work. I toy with the idea of visiting the Leaky Cauldron, but I don’t fancy the idea of turning up tomorrow with a hangover. I have nothing left to keep me from going back to the Burrow.

***************************

“Harry, dear, you’re home!”

Mrs Weasley envelops me in a hug as I step into the kitchen. I wrestle with the instinct to stiffen and flinch away from the intimate contact. My heart speeds up just a little.

 _You’re being stupid_ , I tell my racing pulse, and hug her back. Mrs Weasley doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation, and takes my chin in her hand.

“You’re peaky! They’re working you too hard,” she tuts. “These long hours…” She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Now, I’ve kept a plate warm for you, and there’s plenty of trifle left for pudding. Sit down, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

I gratefully take a seat while she bustles around and then allow her to gently bully me into finishing the heaped plate of Toad in the Hole and two helpings of trifle. Her voice washes over me in a wave, soothing me, until:

“Oh, and I’ve made up the bed for you, dear. The old sheets were a bit musty.”

I must have missed something. “Sorry?”

“The bed. In Percy’s old room. Ron explained that you both needed a bit more space, and you’d decided to move out into your own room, after all.”

My heart sinks. “Oh. Yeah. Thank you.”

She smiles approvingly. “It’s all ready for you. Much more sensible, now that you’re both working, and Merlin knows the room’s just sitting there, since Percy moved back to London. Ron even shifted all your things down earlier to save you the trouble – isn’t that nice?”

A false smile blooms across my face. “Yes, very nice. Very good of him. Excellent,” I stammer.

I wander up the stairs to stand in front of Ron’s door. There’s no bar of light streaming out across the threshold, but I raise my hand to knock anyway. Before my fist makes contact with the wood, however, the doorknob quivers a little and squawks, “Go away, Harry!”

I ignore it, raising my fist for the second time, and this time its suggestion is much less polite, and possibly not even physically possible. Even if it was, it wouldn’t be very nice for the sheep.

_Fine, then. If that’s the way you feel._

I walk back down the stairs to my new, unfamiliar room. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe at least some minimal vandalism of my personal property. I was certainly not expecting everything neatly packed, stored, folded away. Everything was set up. There was nothing for me to do here, except get into bed.

With uncharacteristic carelessness, I drop my robes on the floor and let them lie where they fall, before sliding between the clean sheets dressed in only my boxers.

Exhaustion overtakes me quickly, but my sleep is fretful and unsatisfying, filled with visions of Ron shouting, Ron crying, Ron hitting me, Ron grabbing me and kissing me so passionately it takes my breath away…

*********************************

3:30pm Friday 23rd October,  
Hogwarts

Hi Harry,

I’m in History of Magic and bored to tears. The most interesting thing to happen in the whole last hour was one of the Slytherins nodding off and whimpering in his sleep for his mummy.

Did you get my last letter? It should have arrived about a week ago, but I haven’t heard back, so I guess not. The owl that wanted to take it did look a bit daft, but I was in a hurry to get to Herbology and didn’t have time to find another bird.

To summarise:

* Dean and Luna are going out. Never thought I’d see the day THAT happened. She doesn’t seem to care that he clings like a limpet. I don’t know that she’s noticed too much, to be honest. He’s even eating at the Ravenclaw table at breakfast, just so they can hold hands. It’s nauseating, but it was funny when Seamus showed _his_ opinion of Dean being so wet by charming his robes from black to fuchsia and serenading him in the Common Room the other night.

* Hannah Abbott has been trailing around like a puppy after Neville. I don’t think she’d ever spoken more than two words to him before last year, and now she’s being absolutely pathetic. I don’t think Neville’s caught on yet.

* Business seems to be going well. I think Hermione suspects that I’m the one selling Wheezes products at Hogwarts, but she hasn’t caught me out yet. George told me where he and Fred used to stash their stuff and copying the Prefect patrol schedule Hermione keeps in her bedside drawers has made manoeuvres much simpler. And doing it right under her nose makes it twice the fun. It’s driving her mad that she can’t prove it.

Anyway, the bell is FINALLY about to ring, so I’ll finish here, and write you a proper letter later.

Thinking very Naughty Thoughts about you at night,

Your Ginger Girl,

Ginny

P.S. I think Hermione’s planning something for Ron for Hallowe’en. She hasn’t _said_ anything, but call it a hunch. She was storming about like a harpy for weeks after he sent her his reply to that Howler, but the last few days she’s been bouncing about like she’s got this big fantastic secret. 

Don’t warn Ron, of course. Just stand by with a camera in case it’s something really embarrassing I can hold over his head until he’s a grandfather.


	7. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is assertive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was *so* not the way this part was supposed to go, but Hermione took over completely. As she does.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” A hand strokes the side of my face and I bat at it clumsily, without opening my eyes.

“Gerroff, Mum…jus’ five mins…” I’m just drifting back down that lazy tunnel of sleep when somebody slips under the blanket and snuggles up to me, laying tiny kisses on my cheeks. That is _definitely_ not Mum. My eyes fly open, and for a moment all I can see is hair.

“Hermione!” I yelp in surprise. 

“Mmmm hmm…” She’s nuzzling my neck now. My head is still foggy, but other parts of my body are definitely awake. I try to wriggle my hips back a little, but she’s hooked one ankle behind my knee.

“Hermione…” My voice sounds high pitched and squeaky. “’Mione…what…you doing here? How…?”

“Shhhh…” she soothes. “I’m nineteen, a mature-age student. I got permission from Professor McGonagall to visit my family today, while everyone else is in Hogsmeade.”

I’m trying to think coherently, but it just isn’t happening. “But…Mum…other people…home…”

“Silencing charm, locking charm, all set and done.” Her fingers graze the sensitive skin of my bare belly and I suck in a sharp breath. “Ooh…you like that, do you?” she purrs, a wicked smile on her lips. 

“’Mione…shouldn’t…be doing this…maybe we should…talk…” Her fingertips stroke back the way they came, and I moan.

“I’ve been wanting you,” Hermione whispers in a voice that makes my insides quiver. “You’re so far away. We don’t have much time…” She kisses my mouth gently. “…so let’s make the most of it,” she finishes, her lips brushing mine, before her tongue slips in to taste me.

***********************************

“Is Percy visiting today?” I ask, scanning the breakfast table.

“Yes, Harry, dear. Around lunchtime.”

I feel a tightness in my throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley, but I think you’ve set too many plates again.”

Her bright face momentarily freezes as she scans the table, then relaxes into a smile. “No, dear, that’s right. Hermione’s come to visit. She’s upstairs catching up with Ron right now, but she’ll be down in a bit, once they’ve had a chat.”

Numbness creeps across me like a blanket.

“Oh. Right.”

***********************************

“Oh, sweet Merlin… _fuck!_ ” I gasp.

Everything’s happening in a blur. I don’t know where Hermione’s clothes went or when they went but right now I don’t care. Her soft breasts are pressed against my chest, her eyes are glowing and her hands… _Godric’s Balls!_ …her hands are doing something incredible below my waist that’s making me swear and twitch and I’m ready to do _anything_ to have her keep doing it.

“Anything?” she queries. 

I nod clumsily, biting back a cry as she gives me a gentle squeeze.

“Give me your hand,” she murmurs hungrily. I comply, and she guides it down, down, down her body until my fingers find somewhere hot and wet and she cries out and shivers in my arms and mutters a word even I’m impressed by.

I don’t have the slightest clue what I’m doing, but her hand guides mine to start a gentle rhythm and it seems to be right because she whimpers. Her hand on me has stilled, and my hips are giving little thrusts of their own accord into her loosened grip. My breathing is becoming ragged, and I find myself moving slightly, leaning over her, Hermione now on her back, the weight of my upper body on her chest.

“Wait…” she pants. “There’s something, first…hold on.” She pulls away a little, and it’s agony. She’s rummaging in her discarded robes, and eventually pulls out a little square packet. “Condom,” she explains, tearing it open with her teeth. “I did a charm before I left Hogwarts, but it’s always best to…never mind. It’s to stop me getting pregnant.”

 _Pregnant?!_ some rational part in the dim recesses of my mind screams. It’s drowned out by endorphins when Hermione rolls the Muggle contraceptive sheath on me, takes me by the shoulder and pulls me gently back to lying over her again. Her legs are parted, and I realise that the tip of my cock is nudging that warm wet place and it’s like balancing on a knife edge.

“Just go slow, okay?” Hermione whispers. Her eyes are a little afraid, and suddenly I’m petrified. What am I _doing?_

She must have seen it in my face, because she pulls me down for a heated kiss that makes my head spin faster, and suddenly I’m pressing into her. There’s a resistance but it gives, and she cries out, her face twisting in pain.

I stop, though it’s absolute torture. “ _Shit!_ I’m so sor-”

Her mouth latches onto mine, and though there’s tears on her face she’s moving up to meet me and I thrust in the whole way. We pause like that for an infinite moment, then her legs wrap around me and there’s nothing left but that point where we’re connected and the building wave of pleasure crashing over me.

******************************************

Hallowe’en  
Hogwarts

Harry, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TODAY?

When Hermione got back today, she was _humming to herself_. Humming! And she _laughed_ this evening when Seamus Charmed Dean’s Defence Against The Dark Arts textbook to quote love sonnets.

Something is seriously, _seriously_ wrong here. If my idiot brother, Hermione Granger and Neville Fucking Longbottom are getting laid and I’m not, this situation needs to be rectified. FAST.

Brace yourself. Come Christmas, that cherry of yours is MINE.

Yours in desperation,

Ginny.


	8. Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry runs. Ron goes to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second version of this chapter. The first one I wrote was incredibly miserable and depressing, totally from Harry's POV, and didn't really go any way to advancing the plot. So I thought it over and I dumped everything but the first page and completely rewrote it, and I'm much happier with this one.

Another mouthful of Firewhiskey burns its way to blossom in my stomach. I’m numb. Comfortably numb… _isn’t that a song?_ I can’t remember. 

Celestina Warbeck is warbling from the Wireless and the tiny living room is crowded with Weasleys and friends. Andromeda Tonks is bouncing a giggling Teddy Lupin on her knee and pulling ridiculous faces. Fleur is watching them with a slightly hungry look and occasionally squeezing Bill’s hand tightly. The drink has relaxed Percy so much from his usual, stiff demeanour that he laughs aloud at a joke from George and slaps his knee, and for that moment he looks every inch a Weasley.

It’s Christmas Eve at The Burrow, and I’m looking everywhere but at Ron sitting in an armchair near the fire, with Hermione in his lap.

Ever since that morning Ron and Hermione came down to breakfast late, flushed, holding hands, Ron and I have been talking again. The silence that had existed since the fight retreated, but the conversations we have now are shallow and meaningless; Quidditch, work, the weather. _The fucking weather_. There’s a wall behind his eyes that shuts me out, that stops me raising meaningful topics. Asking important questions. Like, what does it mean when you shout at me, kiss me, shut me out, then go and fuck our friend?

There’s something very wrong with this picture. There’s a fragility in the air. It’s the first Christmas since Godric’s Hollow, the second since that first and last Burrow Christmas with Fred and Lupin. Fred’s absence in particular is glaring. George’s eyes meet mine across the room when Percy moves away, and there’s an understanding there. I’m not the only one who’s miserable here.

The song finishes to tinny applause from the Wireless, and a new number starts.

“Oh Arthur!” Mrs Weasley cries, her cheeks rosy. “My favourite! Dance with me!” She pulls him to his feet. Mr Weasley smiles at her and his arm encircles her waist, and they sway and glide in slow circles on the rug.

“Aw… _Mum!_ ” George complains, lobbing pieces of orange peel at them. Bill looks amused, Percy mildly embarrassed, and Ron hasn’t even looked up because Hermione’s whispering something in his ear that’s making his lips curve in a private smile.

Ginny squeezes my hand. “Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

**************************************

“Oh dear,” Hermione says quietly, looking over my shoulder. “That isn’t good.”

I turn my head to look, and fail to see anything remarkable. “What isn’t good?”

Hermione purses her lips a little, worriedly. “Ginny.”

“What about Ginny?”

She looks a little amused. “Didn’t you notice? She left five minutes ago with Harry trailing behind her.”

“What?!” A sudden flush of jealousy fills me.

“Don’t worry. They didn’t do anything,” Hermione states, matter-of-factually.

“How would _you_ know?”

Hermione looks at me as if I am slightly simple. “Because she’s back. _She’s_ back, and _he_ isn’t. That’s never a good sign.”

I swivel round further in my chair and catch sight of Ginny. Her jaw is set and her mouth is a grim, hard line. I know that look.

“I…I think I’d better go find Harry,” I say, nervously. “You know. To make sure she hasn’t hexed his cock up his-”

“Good idea,” Hermione agrees.

********************************

A shadow falls across the open door. I don’t look up until the bed dips as Ron sits next to me. There is a pause.

“Hi,” he says at last.

“Hi.”

Another moment stretches out before: 

“Are you…?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.”

Silence.

Ron shifts awkwardly. “If you want to…you know… _talk_ or something…”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Longer silence. Ron isn’t going away. I give up, let out a long slow breath, and begin.

“I froze up.”

“Froze…?”

“With Ginny.”

“Oh.” Ron blinks. “ _Oh_.” He fidgets and I can see his ears glowing in the light from outside. “Froze up. Right. Well. I was nerv-”

I cut in very quickly. I do not need to know about Ron and Hermione’s sex life. Ever. “ _No!_ Not nervous. _Terrified._ ”

“Well,” he says, blushing deeper still and smiling a little, “I was a bit terrif-”

I need to cut off that flow of words. “I shoved her away from me and ran, Ron.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

Ron seems to be warring with himself for about a half a minute before he asks, “Do you know…?”

“Why?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

I have my own private internal battle, before going on. 

“I just…panic sometimes. When people touch me. It’s like I can’t breathe.” I take a gulp of air, reflexively. “Downstairs, with Ginny. We were just kissing, and then her hands…well…she…”

 _Shit! Why am I telling him all this?_ my head screams.

“Er…well…she…she sort of grabbed me,” I finish, inwardly wincing.

Ron looks slightly ill. I am suddenly, horribly aware that I’ve been talking about his sister.

“And…you didn’t like it?” he asks, tentatively.

“I felt like I might throw up.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

The quiet is long this time. It’s the closest I’ve felt to Ron for months; probably since the end of the war. I don’t want to break or damage this moment, but I’m burning from the inside out.

“Why did you kiss me?” I ask, softly.

“I dunno.” 

He’s looking at his hands. Ron’s hands are held loosely in front of him. They’re large hands, strong hands, gentle hands. Hands that left bruises where they gripped me tightly.

“Yes, you do.” I say, still quietly, but firmly. “You said _I_ was the problem, the reason you were so angry. Then you kissed me.” I pause. “Then you pushed me away.”

“I don’t know why,” he repeats. His eyes meet mine and they’re bright and frightened.

“Okay.”

“I just…couldn’t help it. I’d been wanting to for ages and you were there and I was there and I couldn’t help it.”

“Oh.”

“You were shouting at me and I was angry and you were angry, and you looked beautiful. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” I am confused. “Why are you sorry?”

Ron’s eyes are wild and miserable, but his voice is so hushed I can hardly make out his words. “Because I’m not supposed to feel this way.” 

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my _friend_ ,” he snaps. “My _best_ friend. We’re supposed to do things like talk about Quidditch. I’m not supposed to think about you…er…things,” he stammers, blushing madly. “Nevermind.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Er…I don’t mind, you know.”

“What?”

“You. Thinking things. About me, that is.” My face is so hot I’m sure it’s burning.

“Er…great. I mean…yes. Well. I…ah…I should be…you know. Leaving. Christmas. Hermione. Downstairs. Important.”

Ron vanishes in a flash of ginger hair and glowing, scarlet skin.


	9. Conflict of Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two couples. Two very different ends to the Christmas holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two points of view on this one. The first is longer, from Ron's POV, the second from Harry's is shorter but intense. I'm happy with this chapter - once I got in the groove it flowed pretty well.

I’m trying to get my breath back. Despite the chill in the room, I’m sweating like it’s the height of summer.

“Wow…” Hermione pants. “That was… _intense_.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah…” I gasp, my heart still pounding in my ears.

Hermione plants a slow, lazy kiss on my lips, before snuggling down to lie with her cheek on my chest. 

It’s the last day of the Christmas holidays. Tomorrow, early, Hermione and Ginny will be on their way back to school.

“Mmmm…” Hermione hums, satisfied, shifting a little. “Oh, love?”

Opening my eyes is a struggle. “Yeah?”

“Could you pass me my wand? I should clean up. We’re all sticky.”

I hadn’t really noticed, but I know by now that Hermione’s a bit funny about stickiness. “Oh. Yeah. Hold on.” I fumble blindly over the edge of the bed until my fingers close on a length of wood that I know by the feel does not belong to me. “Here.”

Hermione performs a quick cleansing charm, then lies back, rolling the wand between her fingers. “Did you know beforehand? About my wand?” she asks, her tone slightly amazed.

“No,” I answer truthfully. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

On Christmas morning there had been a small, slender box under the tree simply labelled with Hermione’s name amongst the gifts. Hermione had opened it and simply stared for a long moment, before raising tear-filled eyes to look across the room at Harry. “You found it,” she whispered. “I thought…it was _months_ ago, I thought…” 

Harry’s eyes were shining. “I was able to check it out of the inventory a week after you sent the letter asking about it. I used the letter to try and prove it was yours – I hope you don’t mind. I know it was private.”

“ _Mind?_ ” Hermione was still looking at Harry in disbelief and shock.

Harry’s lips quirked into a little grin. “Since your other wand was working for you well enough, I thought I’d hold back and give it to you in person, rather than owling it. Do you like it?”

“ _Like it?_ ” The tears that were threatening stream down Hermione’s face when she lifts her vine wood Ollivander’s wand from the tissue paper lining. “It’s _beautiful_. Thank you. Thank you _so much_.”

Ginny, from her seat next to Harry on the sofa gave an impatient little snort.

“It’s the one she lost in the war,” I explained quietly. Though Ginny nodded at this, she still looked a bit put out.

Hermione is still lying on her back next to me, playing with the wand. “I still can’t believe Harry got it back for me. He had to fill in a _ridiculous_ about of paperwork to even _see_ it because of the security clearance. And to take it away, he had to sign a declaration that if it is ever needed as evidence in a criminal trial he _has_ to provide it to the Aurors or he gets sent to Azkaban for ninety days. He’s _incredible_.”

I swallow hard, glad that Hermione can’t see the flush on my face from where she’s lying. “Yes,” I murmur. “Yes he is.”

I wouldn’t want her knowing the reason for my blush, the reason why the sex had been so amazing and so passionate. While it was Hermione who moved on top of me only minutes beforehand, I wasn’t thinking of her at all when I came. I was thinking of him.

I’m distracted from my pangs of guilt and embarrassment by the sound of raised voices from another part of the house. Though the privacy charm stops our sounds being heard people outside the room, it doesn’t stop noise made by others filtering in.

“Is that Ginny?” Hermione asks in a hushed voice.

I listen carefully to the muffled tone of the next volley. “Yeah,” I confirm.

“Who’s she screaming at?” she asks, though she has that tone in her voice that’s always there when she knows an answer before asking the question.

It’s hard to tell because the other person isn’t shouting back, until a furious, incredulous voice slices through the air from below.

“You did _not_ just say that!” 

“Harry,” I sigh, with resignation. “Who else?”

The distant staccato of their voices continues for a few seconds more before the house reverberates to the sound of a door being shut with a bang.

****************************************

“Who is she, Harry?”

Ginny is standing in front of me, trembling visibly with rage.

“Who is who?”

“Who. _Is_. She?” Each word is forced out, its own separate sentence. “The girl. The _other_ girl.”

I sigh. The last week has been diabolical, and this new argument in the making is just one more step closer to hell. “There is no other girl.”

“I don’t believe you,” she spits.

“It’s the truth.”

“You must think I’m stupid! You think I can’t _tell?_ ” she gives a mirthless little laugh, her eyes cold. “Every time we’ve been alone together for more than _two minutes_ since Christmas Eve you suddenly find somewhere else to be. So either you’re completely _frigid_ , which given the way you kiss me is _not_ the case, or you’re fucking someone else on the side! So, which one is it, then?”

I take another deep, calming breath. 

_I am not going to shout._

“Ginny, I just need more time. I think we’re moving too fast.”

“ _Too fast?_ ” she screeches. “If we were moving any slower, we’d fossilise! A year and a half it’s been now, since _I_ kissed _you_ , a year and a half! And the _second_ things go beyond kissing and holding hands, you run away!”

_I just can’t deal with this now._

My hands scrub my face and clench in my hair tight enough to hurt. “Look. I really don’t want to fight with you about this.”

“Is it Hermione?”

“ _Jesus_ , Ginny! She’s upstairs right now with your brother!”

Another icy laugh. “You spent the best part of a year together in a tent. Maybe you just learned to share.”

Anger floods over me in a wave. “You did _not_ just say that!”

“ _Well?_ ” she demands, imperiously.

I’m standing very close to her. “Stop. Right now. _Just stop._ ” My fists are clenched and I’m wondering who this person is that is standing in front of me. How she could take the worst year of my life and twist it into a weapon to wound me? “I think you should leave.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees. Her eyes are angry and there’s a sour fold to her lips that doesn’t suit her. “Good bye, Harry. Don’t bother owling me.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” I snipe, but she’s already gone, slamming the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please! No flaming from Ginny fans. I am not attempting to demonise her character. Let the series pan out before filling the comments with your loathing. I have ideas in mind for where I'm going with this. 
> 
> If you do feel that I'm making her utterly detestable beyond redemption go and read the future fics, in particular, Tea. I have to get from here to there, and making her into some kind of eternal Bitch Queen will not fulfil that need.


	10. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Harry listen to the Quidditch.

Ron is sitting on the edge of his seat, fairly quivering with excitement. He is flushed, breathing rapidly, and every particle of his being is listening intently to the game call issuing from the Wireless in the corner of the room.

Suddenly he’s on his feet, gesticulating at it wildly. “ _Foul?!_ No _way!_ That _bloody_ referee needs his eyes checked!” I nod enthusiastically in agreement. It seems the safest thing to do.

The game is close. Pride of Portree’s Keeper got hit in the head by a Bludger five minutes into the match, and the Cannons Keeper seems to have surprised everyone, including himself, by putting up a fair defence. As a result, the scores are very tight and Ron is in danger of rupturing some vital internal organ.

It’s just Ron and I at the Burrow tonight. Mr and Mrs Weasley have been invited to dinner at Shell Cottage and George has lately been spending the odd night in the flat above the shop, slowly moving back out of home in stages.

“No! _No no nonono…ARGH!_ ”

Pride score another ten points using a clever feint, and the game is slowly beginning to lean their way. Ron’s woebegone expression is comical.

I didn’t expect Ginny to cry long and loud over the broken remains of our relationship, and she didn’t disappoint me. An apologetic letter from Hermione had arrived by owl two weeks ago. 

Apparently after spending the first week of term being a complete harpy, Ginny had done an abrupt about-face and promptly latched on to a rather dazed, but pleased, Seamus Finnegan. The two had been joined at the hip, quite literally, ever since. Hermione’s disapproval and indignation fairly oozed from the parchment, but I found that rather than being jealous all I felt was a curious sense of relief.

Ron is suddenly very upright, tense, still as a statue. The excited voice from the Wireless is talking at a mile a minute as a player closes in on the Snitch. Until…

“ _YES!_ ” Ron whoops. “ _We won! We did it!_ ”

He grabs my hands and yanks me up and out of my chair, spinning me in erratic and dangerous circles in the cramped sitting room. “We _won!_ We _actually_ won! Can you believe it? That new Seeker of theirs. What a _find!_ ”

Ron’s face is flushed and his eyes starry. We’re starting to slow down now, which is good because I’m getting dizzy and ever so slightly nauseous. “Harry, we actually _won!_ ”

He’s beaming down at me, his hands in mine and we’re slowly orbiting each other so close. I’m raising my head and there are only inches between our faces, less than inches. My lips brush his with the lightest feather-touch and I can’t hear the Wireless anymore. 

“What…what are you _doing?_ ” Ron whispers desperately, sounding pained but not moving away.

“Shut up,” I breathe, repeating the almost-a-kiss, and Ron’s lips move towards mine just that little bit more and we’re kissing and it’s everything our first kiss wasn’t. It’s soft and hesitant and slow and we’re still barely touching. I can hear the blood pulsing through me like a drum and I’m terrified and my head's spinning and there’s a warm almost-a-pain glowing deep inside my chest.

He’s still kissing me and I’m panicking but still kissing back. I’m wondering in some anxious corner of my brain how long I can do this before I push him off me, before I’m running away. But Ron isn’t grabbing me. He isn’t even pressing against me. He’s just kissing me and his fingers have interlaced themselves with mine, and one thumb is softly stroking my thumb.

The moment our tongues brush against each other a shiver passes over both of us, and we suck in a deep breath in unison. One of his hands gently, slowly, trails up my arm to rest on my shoulder, and my free hand settles on his waist. He lets out a little moan against my mouth when I touch him and I feel like I’m falling.

Time has stopped. All there is is Ron; Ron with his hand in mine, his lips so soft and those little fleeting darts of his tongue flicking into my mouth, and his body hot beneath my hand. Ron, who tastes like the chocolate and butterbeer he consumed just before, and who smells like soap and sweat and something slightly musky that makes my heart pound even harder.

I open my mouth wider and slide my tongue deep into his mouth and he sucks on it gently. I hear myself make a small, desperate noise. A fleeting image of what else he could tease with his mouth like that has me trembling, and I’m shocked by my instant reaction. Though my brain is still very, very frightened, my body has no doubts about what it thinks of this situation. Ron’s hand squeezes mine a little tighter, but he’s still not trying to pull me closer, something I don’t know if I’m frustrated by or thankful for.

My hand slips down to his hip, and with a thumb and finger I tease up the edge of his t-shirt. My fingertips trace that exposed strip of skin, and Ron’s breath hitches sharply. “Harry…” he groans almost inaudibly.

“So soft…” I whisper, stroking it again.

Ron kisses me, his tongue creeping into my mouth. I suck on it as he had done to mine, and he whimpers like he’s in pain. He seems unsteady on his feet, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I am. I massage the underside of his tongue with my own and he grips my shoulder as if to keep his balance.

That’s when someone clears their throat, quietly but insistently. Ron and I break apart, but grip hands tighter. That’s how we’re standing when my eyes focus on the figure in the doorway. 

His eyes aren’t shocked, but slightly disappointed and resigned, and when he speaks, his voice is heavy.

“Boys,” begins Arthur Weasley, “I think it’s about time we had a little talk, don’t you?”


	11. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur talks to Ron and Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I *just* finished it and my writing is flowing so well tonight! And because you're all fabulous, of course. Follows *directly* on from Discovery.

“ _Dad!_ ” I yelp in horror.

All the amorous heat of a moment before has vanished in an icy cold wash of fear. Harry is gripping my hand so hard it hurts, and I don’t even try to free it from him. With what Dad saw, holding hands seems like a triviality right now. What I do wish, more than anything right at this moment, is that I could Obliviate from my mind the expression on Dad’s face now as he’s looking at me. He is _ashamed_ of me. 

Dad gestures towards the sofa behind us before flicking his wand at the jabbering Wireless and plunging the room into silence. “Sit down.”

We take our seats and Dad takes his in an armchair opposite. He presses the thumbs of his steepled hands to his brow for a long moment before looking up at Harry, his expression grave, but not angry. “I presume that this is one of the reasons you ended the relationship with Ginny?”

Harry is staring down at his own lap, and his reply is barely more than a whisper. “Yes, Mr Weasley.”

Dad keeps his eyes on Harry but gestures a hand in my direction. “Was this going on _before_ the relationship ended?”

I can feel Harry trembling violently. “No, Mr Weasley,” he answers quietly, but firmly.

Dad nods. “Very well. Then I should direct my attention to my son.”

I can’t meet his gaze. I find myself studying the threadbare carpet.

“I expected more from you. I expected better of you, Ron.” 

His words stab me to the heart, and I can feel a sob rising in my throat. _I am_ not _going to cry_ , a little voice whispers, but I’m biting my lip so hard it’s both numb and sharply painful all at once. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, the words followed by a shuddering gasp. Harry’s hand grips mine ever tighter.

“I had hoped that Molly and I had impressed upon all of you the necessity of honesty in the choices we make in life, no matter how painful that may be. I also thought we had taught you the importance of respect in relationships with those we love. Tonight, you have demonstrated a lack of both of these.”

I wish he was shouting. Instead, he sounds tired and miserable and defeated, and I can’t stop the first tear from welling up and running down to drip from the end of my nose.

Harry fidgets next to me. “But Mr Weasley,” he says desperately, “it was _me_. _I_ kissed _him_. It wasn’t his fault.”

Though I don’t look up any further than his knees, in my peripheral vision I see Dad shake his head. “It takes two to have a conversation, Harry. You can try and argue with me that Ron was unwilling, but I think I’ll have a little trouble believing that,” he says, gesturing at our interlaced hands.

He sighs. “I can’t say that this comes as a surprise to me. In fact, I think that your mother and I expected it a little sooner.”

“ _What?_ ” I’m looking into Dad’s eyes for the first time since this horrible conversation began. He still looks sad, but there’s a little smile on his lips.

“Oh, yes. I remember how angry your mother was the year you were fourteen and she read all those horrible things that Skeeter woman wrote in the paper about Harry being led on by Hermione. She was ready to march right up there and put Hermione back in her place. I had to calm her down and remind her that you had to fight for what you wanted or you’d never appreciate it when you had it.”

There’s something comforting in this, but I can’t help but feel a surge of irritation. “Did _everyone_ know except me?” I mutter.

“Who _else_ knows?” Harry asks in a worried tone.

“George,” I say almost bitterly. “Fred and he figured it out years ago. He told me last year, before we reopened the shop.”

“Family knows family best,” Dad says, seeming unsurprised by this piece of additional information. “But that’s not the issue here. The issues are honesty and respect, and Hermione deserves both of those things from the both of you.”

A solid lump has formed in my throat and there’s a pain in my chest.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Dad continues, “but I can tell you what I’d expect from my son, a Weasley and a Gryffindor. I’d expect you to end this, here and now, or tell Hermione the truth.”

I sniff, and wipe away the traitorous tears that are threatening again.

“Being an adult means making difficult decisions. I don’t have to explain that to you. Sometimes we have no choice but to be honest with ourselves, but it shouldn’t be at the expense of those around us. Do you understand?” Dad asks gently.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Good. That goes for you too, Harry. Molly and I consider you our son in all but birth. If you truly care for our son, I hope you’ll respect him and respect his decision, whatever that may be.”

“Yes, Mr Weasley,” Harry murmurs.

Dad nods once, then stands and strides over to the sideboard, where he rummages for a moment before emerging triumphantly with a dusty bottle in his fist. “Here it is! Excellent. Well, I must be getting back. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

The oddity of my father’s presence registers. “Dad? Why did you come home?”

Dad grins at me radiantly as if the entire ugly scene had never happened. “I’m going to be a grandfather!” he announces proudly, giving the bottle a little wave. “I’ve been saving this since before you were born for _exactly_ this moment.”

I’m gaping. Words take a second to form in my brain. It’s been a very exhausting evening. “Wow! That’s _brilliant!_ ”

“Congratulations, Mr Weasley!” Harry enthuses.

Dad has gone a bit pink and he’s rumpled his hair with his unoccupied hand, making the sparse thatch stand up every-which-way. “Arthur! Call me Arthur. No need to rub in my seniority,” he jokes, before adding, “Don’t expect us back tonight, Ron. Your mother was already very tipsy when I left. No doubt by now she’s telling that story about when you were four and you decided the gnomes looked thirsty.”

I can feel the heat sweep up and cover me from head to foot.

“What happened?” Harry asks curiously.

“Well, it was quite funny, really. He –”

“ _Goodbye_ , Dad,” I force out, between gritted teeth.

“Oh, right. Yes. See you tomorrow, then.” Dad leaves in rather a hurry, after giving us another dazzling smile. 

Once we’re alone, Harry raises an eyebrow.

“ _Don’t ask_.”


	12. Confessions & Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Harry talk to Hermione.
> 
> Harry and Ron return to the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confessions Notes: Just a short one this time. Two short letters followed by lots of dialogue. Takes place on the Friday following Discovery & Expectations (which took place on a Saturday evening.)
> 
> Consolation Notes: Very short this time. Some form of this scene was originally intended to be in the last chapter, but I decided to use Dumbledore and the portraits instead. But then when I sat down to write tonight's chapter, I kept coming back to this scene at the Burrow, and it wanted to be written. So I apologise for the length, but there's something so beautiful and poignant I feel as read it back that I know it belongs. Maybe watching Driving Lessons again tipped me back to showing the family's angle on things.
> 
> Edit: 1/1/14  
> These were originally two fragment chapters posted separately, but I always labelled them 12a/12b, so combining them here makes sense.

** Confessions **

8:00am Monday 25th January, 1999  
The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole  
Devon, England

Hermione,

There’s something important we have to come and speak to you about. We’ve already written to Professor McGonagall and she’s agreed to allow us to visit the school.

We’ll see you in Headmistress’s Office after dinner on Friday evening. 

Harry and Ron

**************************************

9:22pm Tuesday, 26th January, 1999  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland

Dear Ron and Harry,

Wow! You’re visiting? That’s great! I’ve got so much to tell you both. I’ve been meaning to write you a letter since last week, but with NEWTs in only five months I’ve been spending most of my free time revising.

There’s nothing wrong, is there? You sounded awfully serious in your letter, but I see that you sent it just before leaving for work.

I’ll see you on Friday!

Love, Hermione

*************************************

“I’ll leave you three alone, then.” Professor McGonagall closes the door behind her with a click, and Hermione runs towards to Ron.

“Oh my God! You’re actually _here!_ I’ve missed you _so_ much!”

Her arms are outstretched for an embrace, but Ron catches her by the upper arms and holds her a little distance from him instead. “Hello, Hermione,” he says with a watery smile.

Hermione stills. “There _is_ something wrong,” she realises, her face becoming drawn and frightened. “Who’s ill? Who’s hurt? Oh God…Fleur… _the baby_ …” she trails off.

“Everyone’s fine,” Ron reassures her. “You should sit down.”

Hermione perches uncertainly on the edge of a chair opposite Ron and me. There is an unpleasant pause.

Ron is very pale, but he swallows hard, and begins.

“Hermione, I can’t be with you any longer. I can’t be your boyfriend.”

“What?” Hermione’s tone is blank, disbelieving.

Ron sits rigidly in his chair, as if expecting a hex to be flung at him at any moment. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Ron’s words seem to sink in, but Hermione doesn’t shout. “Why are you saying this to me?” she says to Ron in a small, broken voice.

“Because I need to be honest with you,” Ron replies quietly.

Hermione looks away from him. Her eyes fall on me and she gives a sudden little jolt. “Why is _he_ here?” she asks Ron angrily. “Couldn’t tell me _yourself_ , without Harry holding your hand?”

I feel sick. Ron sighs. “He’s here because this concerns him, too.”

“Since when has our relationship concerned _him?!_ ” Hermione snaps, jabbing a finger at me.

“I’m in love with him,” Ron says softly, looking her directly in the eyes, so that she can see the truth there for herself.

Hermione gapes, ghostly white beneath her mane of dark hair. “How long?”

Ron swallows again, looking down at his lap. “I’ve known for sure since June. But probably a long time.”

“ _June?_ ” Hermione says with a brittle laugh. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Ron says heavily.

Hermione shakes her head. “No. That’s impossible. Not June. That was _months_ before we even…” She stops, her hand flying to her mouth. There’s a terrible realisation in her eyes, a horrible sense of understanding. “ _Him_ ,” she whispers. “All those times we were together. You were with _me_ , and you were thinking of _him_.”

Ron looks into her eyes, and the raw pain and guilt there tells Hermione everything she needs to know. She’s on her feet and gone, out the door and down the moving staircase a heartbeat later.

I gently slide my hand into Ron’s and give it a little squeeze. 

He looks utterly wretched. “I wish she’d hexed me.”

A quiet voice echoes through the otherwise empty room. “I am more proud of you both than I can ever hope to tell you.” Dumbledore is smiling down at us from the portrait behind the Headmistress’s desk. “More witches and wizards than I can count, myself included, can never even hope to possess the amount of courage that must have taken.”

Several other portraits are nodding and smiling; one witch in medieval robes is wiping away tears with a lace handkerchief and blowing her nose vigorously.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully.

************************************

Ron and I have just reached the Entrance Hall and are wrapping ourselves in our winter cloaks for the walk back to Hogsmeade, when we hear a familiar voice.

“It’s true, then. What Hermione just told me?”

Ginny is standing nearby, studying both of us with a shrewd eye. 

“Yes,” I say, looking at her boldly.

She gives a wry grin. “Huh.” She sounds slightly amused. “Well, I did wonder, after what George said.”

“ _What?!_ ” Ron and I exclaim in unison.

Ginny studies her nails, and leans casually against a nearby wall. “Oh, he sent me a letter at the start of term. Basically told me to get over myself, and that Harry had been someone else’s for years and I’d missed my chance.” She smiles at me, a little spark dancing behind her eyes. “I was fit to _spit_ , for a couple of days after I read it. But I kept thinking about who it could be, and this was the only thing that made _any_ kind of sense.”

“Oh,” I hear myself say. Ginny looks very pleased with herself. She always did like outmanoeuvring people.

“Oh well,” she sighs, straightening up. “Say hi to Mum and Dad for me.” Ginny turns and sashays back to the Grand Staircase.

I turn to Ron the moment she’s out of earshot. “Are _all_ the females in your family terrifying?”

Ron looks a little shaken. “Pretty much, yeah.”

 

*

 

** Consolation **

The night we arrive back from Hogwarts, Dad and Mum are sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for us. By the time we had gotten to Hogsmeade the reality of what I’d just done had sunk in and I felt horribly ill. We’d travelled by Side-Along Apparition, Harry leading, because I didn’t want to splinch myself. Though I’d passed my exam not long after the war ended, it still wasn’t my favourite form of travel, and I wasn’t confident at it at the best of times.

Mum immediately bustles over and begins to fuss, pushing Harry and me insistently down into chairs and rummaging around in the kitchen. Dad eyes me thoughtfully. “No tea, dear,” he says. “Just bring out some of that wonderful chocolate pudding.” 

He leaves for a moment before returning with a heavy glass bottle. “I thought you two could do with something a little stronger than tea, after that.”

“Yes, please,” I murmur.

A couple of measures of Firewhiskey help to stop my hands from shaking quite so much and the chocolate pudding, what I can eat of it, makes me feel less sick. Mum had settled herself down next to me and was patting my back. I felt a warm glow inside that wasn’t from the alcohol. It was from just having her near, loving me, no matter what I’d done.

“You did the right thing,” Dad says, pouring me another dram.

“I feel worse. Much worse.” My face is wet. Harry rests his head lightly against my shoulder. 

“ ‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ ” quotes Dad, taking another swallow. “The truth often hurts more than the lies. But it’s easier, in the long term, to live with yourself.”

I’m staring into my empty glass, wondering where the drink went. Things are starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges.

“That’s enough now,” says Mum firmly, capping the bottle again. “You’re not going to sit here and drink yourselves into a stupor. Bed. Things’ll seem better in the morning.”

“Doubt it,” I mumble.

Harry helps me to my feet and up the stairs. Things seem to wobble a little underfoot, as if we’re on a boat. 

Halfway up, I mumble in his ear, “I want you to sleep with me.”

Harry jumps as if I had pinched him sharply. “I…er…well…”

I flap a limp hand. “Not like that. Not yet. In my room. With me.”

Harry looks oddly relieved, and maybe a little disappointed.

“You don’t have to,” I continue. “But I miss you. ‘S lonely in there, on my own.” 

“Okay,” he agrees.

That night, he sleeps in the bed next to mine. I lie awake as long as I can, just to hear his breathing, deep and even, across the darkened room.

The next day, he moves all of his things back upstairs.


	13. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione sends both boys a letter.

(One of two undated letters to arrive at The Burrow at 7:00pm on Wednesday 3rd February, 1999.) 

Ron,

Nothing I can ever write will make you understand.

You took away your love and my best friend in one moment. You left me with no one. 

You made me hate myself for being so naïve and so blind. It wasn’t until yesterday that I realised that you never said you loved me. I thought you did, but you didn’t. I would say it, and you would kiss me. You’ve made a joke of what I felt and what I thought I knew.

I’m glad you never came back to school, because I don’t think I could look at you if you were here.

I can’t forgive you. I don’t know that I ever want to. 

Hermione

*************************************

“Ron?” I call into the shadows.

“Yeah?” echoes a shaky voice from the direction of his bed.

“What are you doing sitting up here in the dark? Your mum said you wouldn’t come down for dinner.” Ron refusing any kind of sustenance was highly unusual behaviour.

My eyes are adjusting to the gloom now, and I can make out the shape of Ron sitting cross legged, his back against the headboard. He gestures a hand at a white square on the duvet next to him.

“Hermione,” he says unsteadily. “She sent me a letter.”

“Oh.” I walk over and perch on the edge of the bed, picking up the piece of parchment. “D’you want me to…?”

He shrugs. I tilt the letter so that the light from the door catches it and I can read the words. Once I finish the short missive, I lay it gently down on the bedside table.

“She hates me,” Ron says miserably.

“She doesn’t hate you.”

Ron shakes his head. “She does. I deserve it.”

“If she hated you, she would have said it. She’s got no reason to hide it if she does,” I pointed out, reasonably.

“You’ve got one, too,” Ron deflects, waving a hand towards my bed, where an envelope lies on the pillow.

“I’ll read it later,” I say, ignoring his half-hearted effort to change the direction of the conversation. I shuffle up the bed until I’m sitting right beside him on the duvet, boots and all, and take his hand gently in mine. “Just give her time,” I murmur.

He sighs deeply, and the sound pains me. I place one hand lightly on his cheek, and turn his face towards mine.

*************************************

Harry is kissing me sweetly and tenderly. Rather than melting away, the melancholy I feel somehow intensifies and blends with something I realise is mounting passion.

 _Calm down_ , I tell myself. _He’s just trying to be nice. Just trying to take your mind off of things. Just trying to distract you from the…_

Harry’s hand has slid from my cheek to the nape of my neck, and one fingertip has begun swirling a small spiral there on the delicate skin under my hair. I take a sharp breath between kisses, and give his other hand a little squeeze.

 _I like that_ , I think, slightly blurrily.

He squeezes my hand in return, as if to say, _I know_.

I take a risk and place my free hand on his back, resting it with only minimal pressure on the sharp edge of his shoulder blade. Harry hesitates a moment before relaxing into the kiss again, the tip of his tongue teasing its way between my lips. 

_Good_ , I think. _Good move. Right move. Brilliant._

I flick my tongue against his in return and feel him shiver. His hand slips down and rests on the side of my neck, over my pulse point, his thumb brushing back and forth across my cheek and jaw line, his fingertips nestled behind my ear. His palm is warm and damp, and I can hear his breathing speeding up.

Harry’s mouth is hot and clamped onto mine. Our tongues are dancing now, stroking each other, and it’s taking every bit of willpower I have not to crush him to me. Every gasp, every gentle touch of his fingers, is making me harder. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s swathed in his Auror robes and his shoes are leaving footprints on my bedding. It doesn’t matter that the door is still wide open and sounds from the rest of the house are creeping in. Nothing so mundane or trivial matters at all.

My hand has slid down to his waist now, with the only reaction from Harry being a little noise and shifting closer. His upper body is tantalisingly close to touching mine and he smells _incredible_. I lean forward without thinking and feel him freeze in my arms, breaking the kiss.

“ _Shit!_ ” I mutter, pulling back.

“Sorry,” he says looking horribly guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have…”

Harry is flushed and panting, his lips slightly swollen. “No. It’s my fault. I just wanted to…But I can’t. It was stupid of me.”

“Why stupid? It’s not stupid. I want you, too.”

“It’s not fair,” he says bitterly. “Not fair on you. To wind you up. To make you expect…things.”

“I don’t expect –”

“We should probably sleep,” he says, cutting me off.

“Oh. Right.”

We undress with our backs turned to each other, and climb into our separate beds, only mumbling a quiet ‘good night’ before settling into silence.

I slide my hand down into my pyjamas, finding my aching cock. I try to resist the urge to pump it fast. I want it slower tonight, but my body seems to have other ideas. I’m getting agonisingly close already.

A minute after I begin, a tiny sound makes me pause and hold my breath for several seconds. 

“ _Please_ , Ron.” Harry’s voice is throaty and breathless in the dark. “God, don’t stop.”

The desperate edge in his plea makes me moan, and all self-control evaporates. I allow my hips to buck and little grunts to escape my lips, all the while listening intently for the sounds of Harry’s own pleasure. Everything inside me is coiling tightly and I’m closer…closer… _closer…_

My limbs spasm violently, and I try unsuccessfully to bite back the cry that breaks from me as I come. Through the rush, as if from a distance, I hear Harry’s strangled whimper as he’s rocked by his own orgasm and it wrings one last pulse of ecstasy from my body. 

While trying to catch our breaths we murmur a few gentle words and endearments to each other, then sleep rises up to claim me with open arms.

*****************************************

It wasn’t until I awoke early the next morning that I remembered Hermione’s letter. Ron was still deeply asleep, his mouth slack and his limbs loose, when I carefully broke the seal and folded out the page the envelope contained.

Harry,

I keep hoping this is all some horrible practical joke; that it isn’t real. But I know it is.

This whole situation has clouded everything I remember and tainted it. I’m looking at my wand now and thinking “Was it a gift? Or was it a payoff? My wand back in exchange for the man I love?” I know that’s not true, but these thoughts won’t leave me alone.

It’s like you’ve stolen something precious from me. Something I thought was only for me. Now I know he was never mine anyway. He was yours.

I feel like I should hate you. I want to hate you. I’ve tried and I can’t. Owl me if he hurts you, and we can take him apart together.

Hermione


	14. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's early at the Burrow and Harry is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who've been missing my domestic fics, I think you'll like this one. I needed to write something a bit happier after the last few chapters. Probably within a few days after Confessions/Consolation.

Ron is snoring. Not a quiet whistling or wheezing, but a rumbling drone, interspersed with little snorts. Despite the February chill in the room he’s thrown the blanket off the top half of himself and is lying on his back with one arm flung wide and a foot hanging out over the side of the mattress. It is hard to imagine him looking any more ridiculous.

I could sleep through the noise. That wasn’t what had woken me. It was my irritatingly precise body clock that had drawn me up from muddled dreams into alertness. I am warm and cosy still, wrapped in my duvet, but my mouth tastes decidedly unpleasant. I slip reluctantly from my bed with a sigh, bundle myself up in my dressing gown and head downstairs.

Mrs Weasley is already pottering about the kitchen. She glances up and smiles, unsurprised to see me. She knows me well enough to anticipate my appearance. “Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning,” I reply.

“Ron still abed?” 

I grin in reply, and she shakes her head fondly. “The kettle’s on, I heard you on the stairs.”

“Mrs Weasley?” I ask. “Would it be all right if I took a cup up for Ron?”

“Of course! And call me Molly. You know where the things are. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs…Molly.”

I rummage through the cupboard, looking for what I need. I set aside the family’s enormous, serviceable Brown Betty. From the outside it looks as if it would hold about eight cups at most, but I’d seen Mrs Weasley serve the whole family at least two rounds from it. I suspected it had some kind of expansion charm on it, maybe like the Extension Charm Hermione had put on her little beaded bag.

Towards the back I find what I’ve been looking for; a sunny yellow teapot with a couple of round handle-less mugs to match. The whole set is ribbed and looks rather like a collection of small beehives made of porcelain.

“Oh!” cries Mrs Weasley, when I set them on the table. “I haven’t touched those for _years_. They were a wedding present. Lovely things, but far too small to be practical for a large family.”

I hesitate. “Do you mind me using them?”

“Of course not! Just let me rinse them out quickly, first. They’ll probably be dusty.”

The tea leaves dance in a dizzy spiral when I fill the pot. Mrs Weasley has found me a small tray to put the service on, and unearthed a matching little milk jug from somewhere. “You’ll need plenty,” she warns, filling it as close to the brim as she dares. “Ron never grew out of cambric tea. He’d probably drink straight from the milk jug and forget the tea altogether, if I let him.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. Our eyes meet across the tea service, and there’s this _connection_. Both our smiles become brighter and there’s no need to say anything else. We’re both joined for a moment in affection for the gangly redhead sprawled across the sheets upstairs.

She pats my cheek gently. “Better take it up then, before it cools.”

Balancing a laden tray up several flights of stairs is no mean feat. By the time I reach our room, my whole upper body is aching. Fortunately I left the door ajar, and a small nudge from my foot swings it wide. I place the tray down as gently as I can on the bedside table and flap my arms around a bit to release the tension.

Ron has stopped snoring and flopped over onto his front. The knuckles of one hand are resting on the bare boards of the floor. His bedding is so tangled that the sheet for the most part is on top and the duvet is underneath. I wonder, not for the first time, whether Ron plays Quidditch in his sleep.

I pour the tea out into the waiting mugs. Ron’s I make milky, mine black and sweet. Then I stroke my Sleeping Beauty’s cheek with my fingertips. “Hey,” I say. “Are you going to wake up? I brought you tea.”

Ron screws his face up and mumbles something incoherent that could be an affirmative or a rude direction for what I can do with my tea, I can’t be sure. I perch on the very edge of the bed and brush his long hair gently back from his face. “Ron?”

His arm winds round my waist, and suddenly he’s buried his head in my side as if he’s nuzzling for milk. I freeze. Ron relaxes into bonelessness again, and makes a satisfied little ‘num, num, num’ sound. 

Seconds go by, measured by my short, shallow breaths and the frantic tapping of my heart. Ron’s fingers are curled around the fabric of my shirt, the fingertip of his pinkie just touching the sensitive skin of my stomach. His body is warm against my back even through my dressing gown, and the weak winter sunlight streaming through the window is painting each copper strand of his hair a fiery golden orange.

_It’s just Ron. He’s not even awake._

Ever so slowly I extricate myself from his loose grip, peeling back his fingers from my clothing one by one. Once free, I stand and retrieve the cup of tea from the tray and hold it very close to his nose. “ _Tea_ ,” I say firmly and loudly. “Tea for _you_ , you git. Wake up.” 

Ron’s nose twitches; once, twice. His eyes crank slowly open, blearily focussing on the mug held only inches from his face, before a giant yawn twists his features into a grimace. I pull the cup back to allow Ron to perform a cat-like stretch that travels the length of his body. Then he shivers and props himself up on an elbow. He’s at least partially upright, though I’m far from convinced he’s actually awake.

I resume my perch on the edge of the bed and pass him the mug, which he drinks from slowly. I pick up my own, and take that first, heavenly sip.

“Mum make this?” he asks, slightly foggily, after a short while. He’s frowning into his cup.

“No, I did,” I sigh. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

He blinks, a little more alert with every mouthful. “Nothing! It’s perfect. _Better_ than perfect,” he says earnestly. 

I feel my face heat a little. “Thank you.”

Ron is watching me with a puzzled expression. “How did you know how I like my tea?”

I raise a brow. “Well, do you know how I like mine?”

A grin blooms on his face and it’s wonderful. “Sweet enough to make my teeth ache.”

I smile, satisfied. “There you go, then.”

Ron drains the last of the tea from his cup, and hands it to me to set on the tray. I put both mugs back, and look at him sharply.

“Now, are you _really_ awake?” I ask.

Ron looks confused. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” I demand.

“Yes.”

“Good,” I say happily. “Then I can do this.” I lean over Ron and place a soft, slow kiss on his rosy, milky-tea lips. When it ends, I rest my forehead against his. 

“Good morning,” I whisper.


	15. Brotherly Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Ron have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wonderful scene has been floating round in my head for days. Takes place mid February.

“So…” drawls George, as the tinkling bell signalled the exit of the last customer of the day. “Ow ooor urrruv rive?”

George had stuffed a sandwich into his mouth just before asking the question.

“What?” I had been locking and securing the front door of Wheezes and hadn’t been able to decipher a word.

George chews hard and fast for about ten seconds, before swallowing and asking again, “How’s your love life?”

I feel myself blushing. “None of your business!”

George giggles. “Ooooh! Look who’s touchy!”

“Well, it isn’t!” I insist hotly.

He looks gleeful. “I did think that you were walking a little stiffly, earlier. A bit sore, are we?”

“No, you put U-No-Poo in my coffee yesterday,” I remind him sourly.

“Got to keep you on your toes!” George replies, unremorsefully. “But seriously. The Chosen One, and all that rot. He’s got to be hung like a Hippogriff, right?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I spit out the mouthful I’d just taken of my Butterbeer. George continues with a thoughtful air, unconcerned at my distress. “And his hands are pretty small, too. So if you’ve inherited the mighty Weasley tackle, he’d be able to fit both of them around your –”

I clap both hands over my ears. “No! I’m not listening to you. I’m not listening to you,” I say in a loud singsong voice.

George pretends to look sulky. “Child.”

“Wanker.”

“Pervert.”

I snort. “ _I’m_ not the one asking for details of _your_ love life!”

He grins wickedly. “What do you want to know?”

“I think I’m scarred enough, thanks,” I say, rubbing my hands down my forearms.

“I’ll have you know I excel in pleasuring females. I’ve had more than one girl claim that I’ve ruined her for other men.”

I snigger. “Maybe because you did such a rotten job she ran screaming.”

“Just for that,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “ _you_ get to process the next delivery of Stinksap.”

“I _always_ end up processing the Stinksap, you lazy git,” I groan. “Why is it always me that has to do it?”

“Seniority,” he smirks. “Fred always made me do it. Now it’s your turn.”

“Bastard.”

“Oi! Don’t impugn our dear mother’s honour like that. I’m sure that she and Dad were sober-headed, virtuous young people who kept their raging desire in check until their wedding night.”

I shudder. “Thanks, George. Now I never even want to _think_ about sex again.”

George looks pleased with himself and begins to count the till with the speed and efficiency born of practice. “So, how are things? Seriously?”

“Fine,” I say brightly. “Everything’s fine.”

He pauses and raises an eyebrow. “But…?”

I frown. “No buts. What makes you think there’s a but?”

George gives a little giggle, then stops. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Serious again now.”

I’m unconvinced. George puts on his most earnest face. “You just seem a bit tense, that’s all.”

“That’s because I’m full of shit,” I force through gritted teeth.

“Never a truer word. No, before that.” He shrugs. “Part of the reason I did it, really. Thought it might make you relax.”

“How is making me constipated supposed to make me _relax?_ ” I ask, incredulous.

George has gone back to counting the money. “Oh, I dunno. Make you think about something other than the fact that you’re not having sex.”

I gape. “How do you…why do you think…”

“The correct response to that would have been to roar with laughter. Or to point out that _Harry_ is the one that’s been walking funny lately.”

“You dosed _him_ as well?!” I rage.

George looks at me with something akin to disappointment. “Just what kind of person do you think I am? Of course I didn’t! What I _do_ know is that he started the physical training for his Auror work last week, and he’s been one big bruise ever since.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” I say sheepishly, running a hand through my hair.

George shuts the till, picks up the money bag and douses the main shop lights with a flick of his wand. “C’mon up,” he says, jerking his head towards the stairs.

The flat hasn’t changed much since the war. While the room back at the Burrow is very much George’s space, the flat is still full of everything that screams “the twins”. Projects, plans and half-finished creations litter all available surfaces. There are Quidditch posters, school photos, and even clothing draped over bits of furniture which I recognise as being Fred’s.

I asked George once why he didn’t pack the things up or move them all to one place, out of the way.

“More comfortable like this,” he’d replied, frankly. “I tried it, but it got too lonely when it felt like it was just me here, and I couldn’t work. I put them back, and it felt right.”

He’s rummaging in the kitchen. “D’you want another Butterbeer, or something stronger?” he calls.

“Better make it a Butterbeer. I’m supposed to be home for dinner, and Mum’ll go mental if I turn up half-drunk this early.”

He re-emerges clutching two bottles, and we sit opposite each other at the end of the dining table free from potentially explosive clutter.

“So. Talk to me. I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

I eye him warily. “You promise?”

“I solemnly swear,” he intones.

I take a long swig of Butterbeer, and release my breath in a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t like to be touched,” I admit.

George raises his eyebrows. “By you?”

“By anyone. But it’s a bit more of a problem where I’m concerned, considering I want to do a bit more than just shake his hand.”

George smiles cheekily and takes a swig of Butterbeer. “I can imagine.”

“You frighten me,” I say with complete honesty.

“Thank you,” George says, as if I just complimented him. “Do you know why?”

“Because it sounded like you were checking out Harry,” I say, with a mixture of revulsion and jealousy.

“Do you know why Harry doesn’t like being touched?” he clarifies.

“Oh. He hasn’t told me,” I admit. “But I think it’s from living with those Muggles when he was a kid.” 

“Probably.” I see a spark of anger in George’s eyes and his lips tighten. “Oh well,” he says after a moment or two. “It could be worse.”

“ _How?_ ” I demand. “I don’t know what to do! I just see him smile and I want to tear all his clothes off and –”

George claps his hands over his ear and the hole on the side of his head and begins to hum a rather bawdy tune.

“Oh. Sorry,” I mumble.

“It could definitely be worse,” George says, lowering his hands, “because he likes you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s thinking the same thing.”

“But I can’t _touch_ him!” I nearly shout in frustration.

George smiles knowingly. “There’s a lot you can do without touching.”

“Like what?” I demand. 

“So _now_ you want my advice on sex?” 

I rub my face with my hands. “I’m probably going to regret saying this…but, yes.”


	16. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's day at work, and what comes after it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is supposed to be a counterpoint to Brotherly Love. We saw Ron's day at work in that chapter, and in this one we see Harry's, plus a little bit of the evening that follows. I liked bringing Campester back in for another scene, since some people seemed to get the wrong impression about his character after reading Distance. Read my commentts in the endnote for this chapter if you want to know why you should like Campester.

“Potter.”

Auror Campester is standing over my desk. I move to stand and he quickly motions for me to stay seated.

“Muscoli tells me you’re doing well in physical defence. He says that despite your size, you’re fast and you don’t lose your head when you’re outnumbered. Good work.”

These clear words of praise from my usually taciturn superior were stunning in themselves, but the source of the good report was even more incredible. I had been convinced that Auror Muscoli not only hated me, but that he _despised_ me. 

I had come to loathe the physical defence sessions in the afternoons. Muscoli would mock me endlessly throughout, all the while casually fending off my attacks with only one hand. He was built like an oak, and a lot lighter on his feet than you’d think for a man of his size. He was one hundred and ten percent solid muscle, and whenever I did land a blow it seemed to injure me more than it did him. I would invariably come away from the encounters bruised and battered from head to toe and fuming. 

I couldn’t Heal myself until getting back to the Burrow, either. Concussions and broken bones and any other actual damage was mended, but strained muscles, bruises and abrasions were considered to be ‘good training for the field’ and ‘character building’ by Campester and the other Seniors. There were no _rules_ against Healing yourself at work, but it made you a bit of a joke amongst your peers if you couldn’t handle a bit of discomfort for a few hours.

I must have gaped for a little too long, because Campester raised a brow at me. “Er…thank you, Sir,” I gabbled, blinking.

“I’ve rostered you to go out on assignment, once a week. I want you in the field. Trott will be puppy-sitting you. You treat any word from his lips as if it came from mine. No showing off, no heroism, no running off on your own. You stay alert, you watch your back and his, and you treat every situation as if it’s serious and potentially dangerous.”

_Constant vigilance…_

“What was that?” Campester said sharply.

I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Sorry, sir. Constant vigilance. Someone I knew used to say that to me.”

A rusty smile quirked his lips. “You should be grateful you’re training under me, rather than Alastor. You’ve had a walk in the park, compared to what he put me through. He was a good man, but a diabolical taskmaster.”

“I’d believe that, Sir,” I said honestly.

He was turning to leave, when he asked, “Oh, one more thing. Your file says that you’re a Parselmouth.”

“I was, Sir.” 

“Was?”

“I don’t know that I am any more.”

Campester heard this unusual statement without blinking. “Is there any way you could test it? It’d be a useful talent to have in the department. Not many Parselmouths out there, and most aren’t on our side.”

I think back to the boa constrictor at the zoo, the summer I turned eleven. “I think so, Sir. I’ll just have to find a snake to talk to, and see if it talks back.”

He nods. “Good. When you’ve done that, let me know.”

***********************************

Harry got back to the Burrow a bit late that evening, but early enough that dinner was still in progress. He looked tired, but was beaming.

“Campester’s letting me start field work!” he enthuses, as Mum slaps a fully laden bowl of stew in front of him.

“That’s quick! You must have impressed him,” Dad says, sounding more than a little impressed himself. “Evan Campester doesn’t give anyone special treatment, never mind what the _Prophet_ will say when they find out. He wouldn’t be putting you out there unless he thought you were ready for it.”

Harry polishes off a plate of dinner and two slices of treacle tart. The moment Dad stands up from the table I take the opportunity to lean over and whisper into his ear, “You. Me. Bedroom.”

Five minutes later, having performed the minimum amount of cleaning up in the kitchen, I shut the bedroom door firmly behind us, casting a locking charm and privacy charm as well. When I turn to face Harry, he looks decidedly nervous.

I step forwards, taking his face in my two hands and kissing him gently. “Relax,” I say soothingly. “We’re not going to do anything you’re not ready for. It’s just to give us a bit of peace and quiet.”

The tension in his body makes me think of a wild animal. A deer, frozen, deciding whether to run. I slip my hand into his, and he clutches it tightly. 

“Promise?”

There’s a quiver in his voice that wounds me. “I promise. Come on. Take those off, and get into something more comfortable. I won’t even watch, if you don’t want me to.”

This seems to reassure him. He kisses me once more, before moving away a little to change. 

Harry slips his long Auror’s robes from his shoulders and hangs them neatly. His build, which has always been slight, is becoming wiry with muscle that flexes and bunches under his skin as he moves to slip a t-shirt over his head. I’m still watching as he hesitates, his pyjama bottoms in hand. He turns to meet my eyes for a moment then he drops them, very deliberately, onto the foot of his bed and stands there in his boxers.

Harry swallows hard. “I trust you,” he whispers.

With those three words, Harry nearly undoes me completely. There are no words for the confluence of emotions that clutter my mind; a chaotic blend of terror, awe, gratitude and lust. Rather unsteadily, I shuffle forward and kiss him deeply, trying to put every element of my love for him into that meeting of mouths.

 _I won’t betray that trust_ , I say with my lips and tongue.

I take his hand in mine, and lead him towards the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _aunt_agatha: I also like that in this universe Harry's job can be threatened like that. I can actually see him not minding the dressing down as much as he might have, just because it would almost make him feel normal, you know?_
> 
>  
> 
> iamshadow: Exactly. 
> 
> Campester, (which is Latin for flat, even, level or a plain) is a character who developed in my mind very quickly, and I was instantly very fond of. He's a very fair, hardworking man who loves what he does and loves the law. He doesn't believe in giving people special treatment and he is completely intolerant of corruption. He's a half-blood, a Hufflepuff, and prior to the end of the war was considered a bit of a joke at the Ministry because he didn't play political games. In other words, he's exactly the sort of man you'd want running the department after the war, which is why Shacklebolt put him there.
> 
> Campester probably knows almost everything about Harry that Harry does. He's studied his school records, Ministry records and the details of his parent's deaths. 
> 
> Right now, Campester sees Harry as something of a liability. Not because he's a bad person, a dark wizard, or incapable of being an Auror. He sees Harry as being a maverick, a rogue and someone who doesn't know how to stick to orders and work in a team. Which, if you look at his past, is a very accurate assessment. Harry has a history of working alone, running headlong into things, disobeying rules and not weighing the risks with any regard for his own safety. Any or all of these things could get him or a team he's with killed very easily. 
> 
> Campester knows that if Harry doesn't learn a different way of working, learn to follow orders and work with others, he's not going to ever become an Auror. He'll be too dangerous to himself, to the team and to those he's trying to protect.
> 
> Right now he's watching to see which way Harry will go; whether he'll continue to be impulsive and reckless, or whether he'll be dedicated and try and learn from those around him. That's what I tried to show in this piece, though he may come into later fics. I like him, and he deserves more pagetime.
> 
>  
> 
> _aunt_agatha: Yes, yes. But is Campester gay? ;D_
> 
>  
> 
> iamshadow: Despite the word "camp" in his name, I don't think so. I think he has a very patient wife, who understand what he's really married to is his job.
> 
>  
> 
> _aunt_agatha:OMG you actually had an answer! *lol* You win. You absolutely win! :D *spanks self for taking the mickey*_
> 
>  
> 
> _sabine91175: I am totally blown away -- not to mention jealous -- at the amount of detail you have for characters that (so far) have only made a small appearance. Wow...._
> 
>  
> 
> iamshadow: Campester sort of jumped into my brain fully formed, which probably means I stole him from somewhere. He's a bit like Vimes from Terry Pratchett, it some ways, Jack Frost from A Touch of Frost... a bastard child of just about every 'good beat cop' you can think of.


	17. Medium

Ron and I lie down on my bed, close, but not quite touching. He props himself up on his left elbow and looks down at me, his eyes dancing with excitement.

“I have an idea,” he says in a rush, before taking a deep breath and slowing his voice to a measured pace. “And I think it’ll work. But I want to talk to you about it first. That way you can decide if you want to try it, and you’ll know what to expect if we do. Okay?”

I nod. I’m still very nervous, but when Ron has that look in his eyes, it’s very hard to resist him. 

“I was talking to George today,” he begins. 

I feel a twinge of annoyance. “You’ve been talking to George? About… _this?_ This idea of yours comes from _him?_ ”

Ron looks a little guilty. “Yes…sort of. No, not really. Just let me finish before you get angry with me, okay?”

“All right,” I concede.

He seems relieved. “Anyway, George was going on about toys. You know, _sex_ toys. Ones that are charmed to do…well, _things_ to somebody else. And it got me thinking. _None_ of those toys did anything that we couldn’t do ourselves. You and me, with our own hands.” He looks triumphant.

“I know that, Ron,” I say wryly. “I’ve been well acquainted with that fact since I was about thirteen.”

“No, no, this is different,” he says, brushing away my sarcasm. “Let me show you. Give me your hand. That one.”

I raise my right hand, and he nests his own right hand over the back of it. Then slowly, he presses down on the back of my hand until my palm is resting across my belly.

“I can’t touch you,” he whispers, “but _you_ can touch you. I worked out one of the reasons it frightens you so much; the touching. You can’t predict what people are going to do next, where they’re going to touch you, how tightly they’re going to hold you. This way you’ll know. You’ll _always_ know. And you can stop if you get scared. You’re in control – I’m just guiding you.”

His hand on the back of mine has started to slowly move. Not independently, but with a light pressure on the back of my hand, propelling my own fingertips to stroke the sensitive skin through my t-shirt. I know it’s my own hand, my own fingers, but it’s far, far different from any teasing touches I’ve given myself in the dark. It’s Ron; Ron guiding my hand in those slow, lazy circles, Ron, his eyes fixed on me expectantly.

“Do you want to try it then?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe. 

His hot mouth fastens on mine and we’re kissing deeply, passionately. I feel my hand gradually moving across my stomach and up to ghost across my nipples, which firm instantly. On the next pass, I pinch the sensitive buds sharply through the fabric, and feel an answering pulse much further down. 

I tug gently at Ron’s bottom lip with my teeth, before tracing it with my tongue. His breathing is just as shallow as mine. I can feel his desire, almost _taste_ it, and as he sucks on my tongue I can almost forget it’s my hand that’s teasing up the edge of my t-shirt and gliding across the quivering skin of my stomach, almost forget it’s my fingers tracing every outline of my abdominal muscles.

I can’t work out who’s controlling our hands any more. It seems like neither of us is directing them; like the planchette on an Ouija board, they trail across the landscape of my body unassisted. At some point I pause and sit up to remove the shirt and my glasses, but we drift back down into that dreamlike state, his hand cupping mine again without word, without question, without fear.

Our hands are now tracing the inside of my hip through my boxers, eliciting a moan, then close, closer, and shying away, teasing my inner thigh instead. My legs spread a little wider of their own accord, and the fingers stroke further down, higher up, ever closer but not _quite_ close enough to touch the part of me that’s aching for relief.

“ _Please…_ ” I beg. I take control and move our joined hands up until they’re hovering right above it.

Ron is flushed and panting and his blue eyes are so dark they’re almost black. “You’re…you’re _sure?_ ”

I nod determinedly and tilt my face up to kiss him. It’s a wet kiss, a mashing of mouths, with his tongue and mine thrusting against each other. Then our hands lower just that fraction of an inch far enough, and there’s _contact_.

********************************************

Harry’s whole body jolts when our hands come to rest and he groans against my mouth. I break the kiss, just so that I can watch his face as our hands slowly begin to rub back and forth across the bulge in his boxer shorts. Harry’s eyes are closed, and he looks as though he’s trying as hard as he can to hear a very faint piece of music. He’s trembling, and I can feel the heat of his body on my hand even though I’m not touching him.

After less than a minute, he mumbles, “Off…” My hand flies up and away from him, but it soon becomes apparent this wasn’t Harry saying he wanted to stop. He wriggles and contorts, his hands wrestling with unco-operative fabric, and suddenly he’s naked, slipping his hand back into mine, and reaching down to grasp his cock.

We both cry out when he grips it firmly and starts to stroke. He’s making small, impatient noises, and I gently exert some pressure with my hand to slow him down, draw it out, make this last just a little longer. My own erection is painful and straining. The tip of my cock is _just_ brushing Harry’s hip, but I can’t bring myself to move away. The involuntary, jerky movements of his pelvis as he thrusts into his hand are exquisite and that wonderful friction is bringing me closer, my balls tightening with every accidental touch.

Our breathing is becoming very ragged now. I’m raining little kisses on his cheek, his mouth, his neck, his shoulder, murmuring love, muttering curses. His skin is damp with sweat and I flick my tongue out to taste the saltiness. I’ve stopped trying to hold Harry back and with every stroke he’s raising his arse right off the bed. His hip rubbing the oversensitive head of my cock feels _incredible_ , and it’s almost impossible to hold back from thrusting hard against him. 

“I’m…I’m…oh… _oh…_ ” His eyes meet mine and they’re blank and shocked, then his face contorts in what looks like pain and he lets out a shout from the depths of his belly, no words, just a sound that turns my insides to liquid fire and I’m _coming_ , coming so hard I can’t breathe, all I can do release a noise like a tortured sob as the pleasure courses through me.

When my thoughts straighten themselves out a bit, when I come back to myself, I realise I’m lying with my head on Harry’s chest with my arm flung across his belly. I flinch a little, realising that I must have clung on to him when I climaxed, breaking my promise and invading that space around him that he guarded so carefully. 

“I’m sorry…” I murmur.

I start to pull away and the arm he has around my shoulders tightens possessively. The fingers of his other hand are stroking my hair.

“No,” he whispers. “ _Stay_. Stay for a little while. I want you near.”


	18. Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron gets more than he expected for his birthday.

7:30pm Thursday 25th February 1999  
Hogwarts

Hi Harry,

I thought I’d send Ron’s present a few days early because the weather up here is _ghastly_ and I didn’t know if it would get down in time if I sent it on Saturday. You don’t mind keeping it hidden somewhere until Monday morning, do you? It’s just chocolate – Ron’s easy to buy for. I just hope the charm held all right and kept out the rain.

I was going to be horrible and ask all sorts of embarrassing questions about what you’ve been getting up to; where, when, how often (I can see you blushing already!) but then I realised if you actually answered any of them I’d be scarred for life. You would have to go and be gay with my _brother_ of all people, wouldn’t you?

Okay, I’m still curious. What? Where? When? How often? (It’ll damage me irreparably to know, but you can pay my Healer bills in years to come. It’s the least you owe me after all that frustratingly good kissing we shared that went NOWHERE.)

Oh, and I just thought you ought to know, but Hermione’s been hanging round an awful lot with Terry Boot. They’re always in the Library together, poring over some musty old book or another. She hasn’t _said_ anything, but she actually smiled at me for no reason yesterday, so I think they’re doing a bit more than studying. Don’t tell Ron. Or at least not yet. Wait till he’s eaten those chocolates, at least. They were seven Sickles an ounce, the really top shelf ones, and I spent most of my money on them last Hogsmeade visit.

Ginny

P.S. Seamus says hi. He also says to tell you he should have known you two were poofters years ago, just from the way you made a fuss and threw things at him when he walked around the dormitory naked.

**************************************

3:17 pm, Saturday 27th February, 1999  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland

Dear Harry,

What do you mean ‘congratulations’? Don’t bother telling me, I can guess who’s been owling you.

Terry is a _friend_. He wanted a study partner for his Charms NEWT, and that’s what we’ve been doing – STUDYING. A foreign concept to you, I know, but one that you should have been at least vaguely aware of by now. (Don’t smirk at me, Harry, it’s unattractive.)

It is far too soon for me to be off cavorting wildly with other wizards. Not all of us females are like Ginevra Weasley. The way she and Seamus carry on in the Common Room you’d think they’d never heard of privacy. I hit them with an Aguamenti yesterday evening because I couldn’t stand the moaning while I was trying to write my essay for Ancient Runes. They make Ron and Lavender look positively Victorian in their affections in retrospect.

About Ron, I hope he has a good birthday. I didn’t buy him anything. What I had planned isn’t really appropriate anymore, and I’m not exactly in the giving mood yet, anyway. At least not anything he’d mend from in a hurry. But you can tell him best wishes for me, if you want to. Just don’t make a big deal about it. I’m still angry with him, you know.

Hermione

***********************************

“Harry? What – _oh sweet Merlin!_ ”

It’d been a pretty good birthday, so far.

Harry had woken me – not too early – with tea in bed. He’d started doing that, now and then, and I’d gotten to like waking up that way. When I went downstairs, Mum had cooked an absolutely enormous breakfast that even I couldn’t finish, so I went to work with a stack of bacon butties almost a foot high for lunch for George and me.

George _had_ Charmed my t-shirt as soon as I stepped out of the Floo to say “Free Kiss From The Birthday Boy With Every Purchase” but once I got over being furious with him and came out of the back room, it was a good day and more people than I would have thought offered to take me up on it.

Harry gave George a black look when he got home and saw that this evening. George just said, “Not my fault! I told him he could wear it or take it off altogether, and _he_ chose to keep it on.” Then he’d smirked. “You should have _seen_ all those middle aged witches who suddenly decided they needed to restock their WonderWitch products. One. Item. At. A. Time. We must have made fifty Galleons over our usual take. I’m thinking of making him wear it again tomorrow.”

Harry was starting to look like thunder, when George grinned across at me where I was sitting, blushing like a fool, of course, and said, “He’s so cute when he’s jealous, isn’t he? I just want to pinch his ickle cheeks.”

“Shut up, George,” we snapped in unison.

He held his hands up in surrender, but looked completely unabashed. “Well, if you’re going to gang up on me with witticisms, how can ever I hope to win?”

I hiss sharply through my teeth. “Harry…” I groan loudly.

Harry tuts. “Enough of that,” he purrs. “There’s no silencing charm set. So, unless you want your family downstairs hearing, you’re going to have to be _quiet_.”

I can hear him smiling in the dark and I bite back another sound. 

“Good boy…” His voice is like a caress.

Dinner was another enormous spread. It was small, as Weasley gatherings go, since most of my friends and Ginny were at school, but Angelina, Katie and Alicia had Flooed in one after the other, and Lee Jordan had shown up with a gift of some truly sickening liqueur. The label was in a language I couldn’t even read and we all drank far too much of it. The Wireless was on loud, playing some new catchy song by the Demented Gnomes. Lee was relating some very dirty gossip about the lead singer when Harry all but dragged me from the room and into the first bedroom we reached that wasn’t my parents’.

“ _You…_ ” he said in a mock accusing tone, before thrusting his tongue into my mouth and pushing me back against the closed door with his hands flat against my chest.

For the last couple of weeks, since my “idea” went so wonderfully, wonderfully well, we’d been doing as much as we could, within the limitations we had to work around. 

If he or I thought that first big shared sexual encounter had “cured” Harry’s phobia, the next morning disillusioned us of that pretty quickly when he flinched away from a spontaneous gentle hug. He was _better_ than he had been, though. We’d been pushing that boundary, every time since then, seeing just how far we could go before he had to stop. 

But this…this was _new_.

“Chocolate,” Harry growls, pressing me firmer back against the door with his left hand. “Was going to wait till later…but she would have to buy you _chocolate…_ ” he mumbles.

His right hand, which has been rubbing me through my trousers stops, and I whimper. He’s fumbling awkwardly with my fly, then my boxers, and he quickly presses his hot mouth against mine to catch the cry that rips from me when his hand closes around my cock.

_Harry…touching me…Harry…_

“Oh… _fuck!_ ” I mutter, my head falling back to thud against the wood behind me. 

He’s never touched me like this before. The other night he brushed me gently with his fingertips for a while, leaving me gasping. He’s stroking me firmly now though, fast and hard, and I can’t seem to catch my breath enough to stop my head from spinning, let alone enough to shout like I feel I should be.

Harry steps a little closer so that he can grind his own erection desperately against my hip. “Licking your lips…sucking your fingers one by one…the _look_ on your face…” he pants.

My knees are trembling and I’m leaning most of my weight against the door. I’ve wound my hands through Harry’s hair in a vain attempt to stop myself grabbing his hips to press him closer. I can hear myself making a soft, needy sound deep in my throat, and then I’m _there_ , biting my lip so hard I can’t work out why I’m not tasting blood as I come all over his hand.

“So…so… _so fucking beautiful!_ ” Harry moans as he trembles all over and slumps against me, swallowing great gulps of air. I hold him, my arms loose, knowing that for a short window of time, he’ll be able to stand it, even enjoy having me this close to him. 

My throat is dry, and I swallow, trying to regain the ability to speak. “Where…where did that come from?” I ask, fuzzily.

Harry gives a sleepy sounding little giggle. “Been planning that for over a week,” he slurs into my chest. “Happy Birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a little Hermione-centric cookie fic, go and check out [Simpatico](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116386)!


	19. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron takes care of George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time for a POV not from Ron or Harry! And yes, lots of angst. It had been too long since I poked George with a stick, so I gave in to temptation.

The pounding in my head seems to be echoing through the floor. I ignore it. There’s a bottle in my hand, so I raise it to my lips, mechanically, and take a large mouthful. The thudding continues but the fog is clearing. I can hear a voice calling my name.

“G’way,” I say loudly.

“George? Open the door!” the muffled voice says.

I decide to be more forceful in my approach. “ _SOD OFF!_ ” I bellow.

There’s a muttering sound outside, then a flash of light. The door is blasted open with what seems to be an excessive amount of force.

“You broke my fucking door,” I mumble angrily.

“You wouldn’t open it,” Ron counters.

“Because I wanted to be left _alone_ ,” I say, scathingly. Another swallow. I’m too numb to feel the burn.

“You’re drinking _that shit?_ ” Ron gestures at the bottle of cooking sherry.

I shrug. “Ran out of everything else.”

He scans the line of empties on the table. “You drank your _whole_ collection?”

“Not yet,” I say, sloshing the liquid left in the sherry bottle.

“Even that stuff Charlie brought back from Romania? The stuff that evaporated unless it was kept chilled and smelt like turpentine?”

“Yep,” I announce proudly. “And after half a bottle…it still tasted like shit.”

Ron shakes his head, incredulous. “You’re insane.”

I raise a finger to correct him. “No, I’m drunk.”

“You’re insane,” he repeats, “and you stink of puke.”

“Unfortunately. But there was no one around to care until _you_ barged in so rudely.” I take another mouthful. “No one at all,” I add, all faint traces of humour gone.

“Where’s Lee?” Ron asks. “I thought he was going to be staying with you last night?”

I take a large gulp of the foul sherry. “He was.”

“But he’s not here.”

I smile, despite feeling no happiness at all. “He needed to be elsewhere. He left.”

Ron’s flushed face turns a deep crimson. Contrasted with his bright hair, it’s quite stunning. “He _left?_ He left you _alone_ last night?” Ron is gripping his still drawn wand tightly. “I’ll kill him,” he murmurs quietly, looking remarkably vicious. Hardly anything like the little brother I know.

“Not his fault,” I say, trying to placate him. It doesn’t work.

“ _Not his fault?!_ What could _possibly_ be more important than keeping you company last night?”

“Nothing,” I mumble. “There wasn’t anything. He just needed to be elsewhere…anywhere else. Away from me.” Ron stops fuming and looks at me sharply and I look at my lap unable to meet his eyes. “I bollixed things up,” I say, quietly.

“Did you have a fight?” he asks.

“No. Not a fight.”

Ron looks confused. “Then what…?”

“I kissed him.”

There is a heavy silence. I hear Ron swallow loudly. 

“I…I didn’t know…that you were…”

“I’m not,” I say firmly. 

“But you…why?”

It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t help that I’m so messed up, myself, and that the alcohol is making it hard for me to think. 

“I just needed…I don’t know. I just wanted to be _close_ to somebody. To be near someone who missed him, who loved him too.” I shrug again. “I fucked up.”

Ron sighs, collapses into the chair opposite mine, holds out a hand, and I pass him the bottle. He takes a sip and swallows it with difficulty. “That’s disgusting,” he splutters, handing it back. “When did he leave?” he asks, after coughing a bit and clearing his throat.

“Nine o’clock.”

He blinks. “That’s not long ag –”

“Last night.”

He looks angry again. “You were on your own _all night?_ ”

“More or less.”

Ron looks like he wants to smash something. Instead, he says something under his breath that is highly uncomplimentary of Lee’s sexual preferences. I’m grudgingly impressed.

“Who taught you that one?” I ask.

“Charlie.”

I silently toast my absent brother. My other absent brother. 

“So you just sat here and got drunk.”

“More drunk. I was already pretty far gone. Lee obviously wasn’t though. Well, not enough, anyway.” I giggle slightly hysterically.

“You stupid bugger,” Ron sighs.

“Failed bugger. Though not for want of trying.” I try to shake my head at my own lack of prowess, but the resulting pain makes me hiss and clutch my skull with my free hand. Ron looks at me sharply.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, with an edge in his voice.

“No. Not on purpose. He shoved me away, and I hit my head on the way down. I don’t think he saw it. He was out the door before I hit the ground. Things were a bit foggy for a while after. I had to go throw up.”

Ron has got up and is standing over me, gently parting my hair. One fingertip touches something that makes me yelp.

“No blood,” he says, looking closely. “But there’s a lump the size of a hen’s egg. You’ve probably got concussion.”

“Hooray!” I say with mock cheer, raising the bottle again, only to feel it being removed from my slack fingers. “Oi!”

“Which means you shouldn’t be drinking,” Ron clarifies. A second later I hear the glugging sound of the awful sherry being tipped down the kitchen sink. I think about going and saving it, but it just seems like far too much effort.

“What did you hit, anyway?” he says, re-emerging, dropping the now-empty bottle with the others.

“Don’t really know. Maybe the edge of the table?”

“You’re lucky you didn’t smash your head in,” Ron says, sounding slightly alarmed.

I shrug nonchalantly. “Weasleys have thick skulls. Having good aim and a strong arm is only one half of being a Beater. Most of the games I played in at school I got a decent tap at least once.” 

Ron is unimpressed. “Most of the games at school you didn’t go and get wasted afterwards.”

I smirk. “That’s what _you_ think.”

He rolls his eyes. “You should at least try and sober up a bit before this evening. You’re just lucky it was me that found you, not Mum.”

I groan. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Ron blinks at me, as if I’ve started speaking Gobbledegook. “You’re kidding me, right?”

I continue to look blank.

“You seriously forgot?” Ron looks disbelieving. “Busiest day of the year ring any bells? Customers lined up at eight am, waiting for the doors to open?”

I feel all the blood drain from my face. Today isn’t just my twenty-first birthday. It’s April Fools’ Day. 

Before I can dash from the room and fall headlong down the narrow flight of stairs to the shop, Ron has pushed me back into my seat and held me there firmly with both hands. I struggle, but he’s stronger than I remembered, and my muscle tone isn’t what it used to be since I stopped playing Quidditch.

“Let me _go_ , you twat! We have to open the shop! _What time is it?_ ”

“Stop fighting me, you bloody idiot! The shop’s open! It’s been open for over an hour.” 

I slump, then panic a little again. “But you’re _here_. They’ll be stealing –”

“No, they won’t,” Ron says, still not letting go of me, his eyes fixed on mine. “Because Harry’s down there stuffing things into bags and Percy’s working the till and trying his best to flirt with the really fit female customers.”

“But…but why? How?”

Ron loosens his grip. “When I got here and saw you weren’t around, I thought you might have gone on a bender. I waited half an hour to see if you’d show, then I owled Harry and Perce because I knew I wouldn’t be able to manage the crowd myself.”

“The shop’s open?” I ask stupidly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Ron says clearly.

“We’re not going to lose money?”

Ron shakes his head. “If anything, I think the delay in opening made them more excited. They nearly trampled Percy when he opened the door.”

I shut my eyes, lean forwards and cradle my face in my hands. Ron’s large hand rubs my back as I sniffle and sob like a bloody kid. 

“Fucked everything up…” I moan. 

After a while, Ron hoists me up and half-carries me to my bedroom. He helps me undress, tucks me in, and when I ask him to, he lies next to me until I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a short cookie fic of what might have happened had Lee been more drunk and/or less straight, go and read [Solace](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116406), an AU of the night before this chapter takes place.


	20. Inexperience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is desperate and needs Harry to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, only a short one this time. It wouldn't fit with any other scenes I had in mind, and I had a lot of trouble getting it as long as it is, to be honest. But I liked it too much to leave it out, so here is a little ficlet chapter.

“Can you, Harry?” Ron asks. “You can’t really do it to yourself, it’s not the same. You just can’t reach properly.”

I watch as Ron slips his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it carelessly aside. I feel helpless, and more than a little scared. 

“But I’ve never done it before. I won’t know what to do,” I plead.

He turns a little so he can catch my eye and smile. “You’ll be fine. I’ll tell you when it feels good.”

“You’re sure?”

My eyes feast on the sight of Ron’s bare skin in front of me. His back is a star chart painted in ginger on a smooth, cream canvas. I stroke the sensitive area with a fingertip, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth with a hiss.

 _“Please?”_ There’s an urgent, needy whine to his voice.

My finger draws a lazy circle and he whimpers and leans back slightly.

“Positive?”

“Uh huh.” 

I reach across to the bedside table, pick up the little bottle of oil and pour a liberal amount into my palm. When my hands are slick and slippery, I gently push my thumb against firm muscle. Ron groans.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, easing the pressure.

“Sort of, but it’s good. Don’t stop,” Ron murmurs breathlessly.

My thumb continues circling, stretching the taut flesh. Ron is gasping, and I can feel my nipples tightening at the sound. I bend over to press a kiss against the back of his neck and he moans. 

“Relax,” I whisper against his skin.

His breath quickens when I push first one, then two fingers into him. I rest my other hand on his hip and give it a gentle squeeze as I continue to probe and explore, eliciting little sounds of pleasure. 

“You like that?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Ron is humming, deep in his throat, punctuated with little grunts.

“Harder,” he begs.

I thrust my fingers deeper, harder, firmer. Ron cries out, but when I stop, he growls and pushes back against my hand, seeking that contact. 

“There…right there…” he gasps.

My own breathing is becoming fast and shallow. I’m hard already and getting more so by the moment as Ron trembles against me. A shining bead of sweat trickles down from beneath his heavy, tousled hair to trace the path of his spine. I can’t help but lean forward to catch it with the tip of my tongue and savour its faint saltiness. My other hand slips around and trails up his belly to tease his nipples.

“Ghaaarghhhh…” Ron moans loudly. I can’t help but chuckle softly. He’s becoming loose and pliable under my ministrations. “Fuck…Harry…” he mutters.

I plant a kiss on a particularly delicious looking freckle. “Patience,” I whisper.

Minutes go by, and I can feel my hand starting to cramp as I experiment with angles, speed and pressure. Ron’s ecstatic noises are making my heart thud just a little too fast and the bulge in my boxers throb insistently.

Finally he’s completely relaxed. I give his shoulder a final pat, then pull him back to rest lightly against my chest with my arms around him. “Now, next time you have to get a box down from up high at work, you’re going to…?” I ask.

“Do exactly the same bloody thing,” Ron sighs, with a happy, dopey smile. “That was so worth it.”


	21. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As some things are beginning, others are ending, and Ron works to come to terms with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who submitted prompt words!
> 
> In particular, these people, whose words were used in this chapter:  
> star54kar - hands, love, lost, Pig  
> lnalvgd - speculation  
> and quizzical - effervescent (effervescence), glee, resolution
> 
> If I haven't used your words, never fear. I'm going to try and use as many as I can, and I got a lot that are going to be useful when I do write my pornish chapter. (Though aunt_agatha's prompt of 'frigate' will present a unique challenge.)

Hermione Granger was rather surprised.

Not surprised in a bad way, mind you. No, this surprise was turning out to be much, much better than she could have anticipated, had she known it was coming. But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, of course. 

Hermione had been busy packing away after that evening’s DA and Terry had hung back to help and to ask her about the study session they had planned for tomorrow evening. Then, without any apparent interlude, she was being thoroughly kissed. That was the first surprise. The second was that she was kissing him back, with equal vigour.

The period of time that followed was increasingly heated and foggy, involving hands and impatient little sounds and some very dirty words that she realised at some point were coming from her own lips. Now she was vaguely aware that her back was up against the wall of the classroom, her underwear was somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles, and Terry was kissing her neck.

There was a final moment of coherent thought. A single faint annoying realisation.

_Damn Ginny. She’s going to be so smug._

Then his finger slipped inside her, confidently seeking out and finding a place that made her see stars, and all thoughts were obliterated. Apparently Terry had been doing his homework.

*************************************

“ _Fuck it!_ Come _here_ , you stupid idiot!”

Pig was orbiting Ron’s head in erratic, ecstatic circles. I watched the chaos for over a minute in amusement. Ron was getting more and more furious, his lunges for his owl wilder, Pig’s effervescence and obvious glee more pronounced. In the end I decided I was probably taking too much pleasure in Ron’s pain. I stood and snatched Pig deftly from the air on my first attempt as he zoomed past my face.

“Show off,” grumbles Ron, glaring half-heartedly at me. 

“Seeker,” I counter, handing him Pig, who hooted happily up at his master, waving his foot in the air.

Ron untied the mail and set Pig on his perch, scattering some owl treats for him with an air of mild resentment. I lay down again, picking up my book.

“One for you, too,” Ron says, dropping the envelope on my chest. He perches on the edge of my bed, staring at the sender’s address on his own as if it were a ticking bomb.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. 

Ron’s face, which had been red from his exertions moments ago, is pale. “Er…it’s from Hermione.”

“So?”

He shifts, obviously uneasy. “Well…she hasn’t written me. At all. Not since…you know.”

“She’s asked about you, though, when she’s written to me.”

Ron gives me a hard, disbelieving look.

“Okay, well, she hasn’t actually _asked_ about you,” I admit, “but she almost has. And she wished you happy birthday the other month.”

Ron shakes his head pessimistically. “I saw that letter. She said she was still angry with me a bit further down.”

I sit up, and rest a hand on his shoulder. “This might not be like that,” I say quietly. “And even if it is, sitting there brooding isn’t going to make it any easier when you do decide to read it.”

He sighs. “Guess not.”

“Come on,” I say, breaking the seal on my own letter. “Let’s just get it over with and read them, and then we can go downstairs and have a couple of shots of Firewhiskey if you need to.”

I expect Ron to at least protest a little more, but he sets his lips in a firm line and opens his own envelope.

It has to be the shortest letter I’ve ever received from Hermione. It’s to the point and contains nothing about school whatsoever. If it wasn’t for the handwriting and the fact that she used the word “speculation” to refer to Ginny’s shameless gossiping over the past month, I might have doubted it was Hermione who wrote it at all.

I glance up to see Ron studying a similarly brief missive with an expression of shock and bewilderment on his face.

“This is good news,” I say to Ron, slowly. “Right?”

Ron looks miserable. “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?” I ask tentatively, not sure I want to hear the answer. 

It’s been over two months since we’ve been together, and though what we’ve done has been fun and intense for _me_ , I’m still not sure it hasn’t just been frustrating for Ron. 

I had hoped Ron’s ‘birthday present’ would make me more relaxed, but if anything it made me more nervous. The next time we’d tried anything sexual together, I had completely frozen up. All I could think of was that he’d expect the same kind of thing again, since I’d done it once. Though he assured me that wasn’t the case when I told him what I was thinking, I couldn’t help but feel horribly guilty. 

I knew he and Hermione had had sex – _real_ full-on sex. The idea that he might think of her or of sex with her with longing really frightened me in some dark, insecure corner of my mind.

“No,” he says hastily. “Nothing like that. It’s just, I don’t know, really _final_. It’s really over.” He lets out a long, slow breath. “When she and I got together, I thought, ‘this is it’ you know? This is the way life goes. You meet a nice girl that your parents like, and you marry her. I thought that soon enough we were going to settle down and have a mess of kids and I’d stay at home minding them while she became the next Minister for Magic.”

I allow myself a small smile, which he returns, briefly.

“Now everything’s different,” he continues. “Not _bad_ different. Just _different_ different. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life any more.”

I slip my arm around his waist and rest my head lightly against his shoulder. I feel him lean into me an almost imperceptible amount. There’s a comfort in this. It should feel wrong to be so reassured when Ron is so lost, but it doesn’t. Feeling lost is something I understand completely.

“I thought I was going to die,” I say calmly, before correcting myself. “No, I _knew_ I was going to die. I never really thought about the future much, because I didn’t think it was something I’d ever have the opportunity to worry about. If they hadn’t offered me a place with the Aurors, I don’t know what I’d have done. Gone back to school, or helped you and George out with Wheezes, I guess.”

Ron plants a gentle kiss on my hair then rests his forehead on the crown of my head. He takes my hand in his, and we sit like this for a long while, just drinking up the sensation of the nearness, the closeness of each other.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice rough.

I tighten my arm around his waist and give his hand a little squeeze.

“I love you, too,” I say, meaning every word.


	22. Trepidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wants to take things to the next level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chiarore - tomatoes  
> deserttrapped - necessity, wonderful  
> redsnake05 - trepidation  
> star54kar - burn(ing)  
> massielita - scent  
> and lnalvgd - permission, passion(ately)

My day was long. Far, far too long. Somewhere along the line there had been a monumental cock-up and the Wheezes had ended up with a delivery of fifty crates of tomatoes, when the order we’d put in clearly asked for eight pounds of dried Horehound.

Then the idiot who tried to unload them on us wanted payment and wouldn’t negotiate. Oh boy.

I _did_ manage to get George’s wand off him before he did any lasting damage to the prat, but there were a lot of heated words spoken and at least three other shop owners threatened to call the MLEs. 

In the end, the man left without his money and covered in his own produce, mumbling resentfully about talking to the _Daily Prophet_ about his mistreatment. It took the rest of the afternoon and into the evening making one Floo call after another to different departments of the company in question to get the whole mess straightened out. By the time I got home, I was exhausted and ready to tear my hair out in frustration. 

Dinner was over. Mum bustled over with a plate of food, kept hot and fresh. I was ravenous because I hadn’t had a chance to get lunch, but I still found myself picking at my meal. 

“Harry home yet?” I ask Mum morosely, holding out little hope the answer will be a positive one. He’d been on a night rotation with his senior partner for the last two weeks, not finishing until the early hours of the morning. 

“Yes, dear,” Mum said brightly. “He got home around six, for a change. He’s up in your room, I think.”

I abandon my unfinished meal. “Thanks, Mum.”

When I open my bedroom door, the first thing I notice is that it’s dark. Not pitch dark, but dim. Too dark to read by. 

The second, once my eyes adjust a little, is Harry, stretched out on my bed. 

“Hi,” he says. 

Any questions about the lighting, any pent up whinging I planned to vent about the shop disappears. His voice is husky and _he’s lying on my bed_. Fully clothed, but on my bed, the lights dimmed, waiting for me. My mouth goes dry.

“Um…hi?” I reply, ever so confidently. “You’re on my bed,” I add unnecessarily.

I see him raise an eyebrow through the gloom. “Should I have asked permission first?”

“Er…no. No, it’s great. Wonderful,” I blunder.

Harry sits up cross-legged and holds out his hand. “C’mere.”

I find myself on the bed beside him, my hand in his, his lips locked with mine in a burning kiss. Time seems to stretch out and slow down. The firm but gentle pressure of his mouth against mine, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body – so close, but so unreachable – combine to slow down my thoughts to a steady, primal pulse of need.

His hand ghosts over my arm, my chest and up to cup my cheek. Harry breaks the kiss and pulls back enough to pin me with eyes deep and dark with lust. “I want you to touch me,” he says, his voice rough, but firm.

My eager cock throbs its approval, but my brain’s reaction is instant alarm. It replays the last time we experimented with going a little further; Harry’s near-panic attack, my horrible guilt.

“It won’t be like last time,” Harry continues, reading my mind – or my face – with uncanny accuracy.

“But…if…if you’re not ready…I don’t need…I don’t expect…”

Harry leans forward and kisses me passionately, almost aggressively. My traitorous heart speeds up a notch. “I’m ready,” he says, panting a little. “I’m ready, and I want you, and it’ll be okay.”

I’m not convinced. I’m biting my lip, wondering how on earth I’m going to get out of this. “I…I don’t think I can.”

Harry puts his hands on my upper arms and gives me a little shake. “Hey!” he says in a mock-stern tone. “Who’s the one with the phobia here?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” I explain, miserably. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to.”

“You _won’t_ ,” Harry assures me with a gentle kiss. “I want this. We’ll just go slowly. If I want you to stop, I’ll say something, okay? Plus,” he leans in slightly and confides, “I had a couple of shots of Firewhiskey back to back before you got home. I’m feeling pretty relaxed about things right now.”

Despite my nerves, I can’t help but give him a shaky grin. “Good for my confidence that you have to get drunk to shag me.” 

The second the words leave my mouth, I’m kicking myself. 

_Why on earth did I say that? Shit! Now he’ll think that I think that he wants sex. What if he didn’t mean that? What if he’s_ not _ready and I just put more pressure on him?_

But Harry just gives me a teasing smile. “Not _drunk_ as such. Just a bit… _relaxed_. I won’t always need it, I promise. But tonight I think it’s a necessity, if we’re going to do what I’ve been thinking about doing.”

I know he’s won. I’m still terrified of doing the wrong thing, but Harry’s won, and he knows it. He takes one of my hands and places it flat over his heart. Then he places his own on my chest.

“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down to my belly.

I quickly work out his game, and why this just might work when other attempts have failed. He’s taken my initial idea from months ago to a new level. Every movement I make, he’s already done to me. He knows what’s coming and has complete control.

Our hands drift across each other’s forms with increasing urgency, mine always shadowing his. I’m intoxicated with the sensation; his body not flinching but curving to meet my touch. 

Harry’s fingers steal up and under the edge of my t-shirt. “Off,” he growls, and I comply. When I’m bare-chested he makes an appreciative little sound, eyeing me like a large slice of treacle tart. I feel exposed and vulnerable but at the same time incredibly aroused at the look he’s giving me.

As he moves to remove his own shirt, I place a gentle hand on his arm to stay him. “Wait,” I murmur. 

I cup his face in my hands, my fingers fanning across his cheeks, and kiss him slowly. Then, with the utmost care, I reach up for his glasses. His eyes gently close, and as I slip the spectacles from his face, he exhales a long, unsteady breath as though I’ve touched him in some hidden, secret place. I kiss him once more, then lean back a little so that he can hastily remove his own shirt.

His skin is milky white and soft under my fingertips. The Auror training hasn’t given him bulk, but it has defined the muscle in his chest, abdomen and arms. I find myself caressing every inch of him with my eyes. He’s shuffling in to pull me closer, when I remember something and swear softly.

“Sorry…I’ve just got to do…um…something.” I fumble on the bedside table for my wand, point it at my crotch, and mutter, “Contego connubialis.”

“Contraceptive charm?” Harry queries, confused. “But why?”

“Promised,” I answer, hoping he won’t enquire further.

“Promised who?” Harry asks, crushing all hope of me retaining my dignity intact.

“Hermione,” I mumble, feeling the heat that had been more pleasant places until a moment before flood my face. “It protects against a lot of things, not just pregnancy. She said because I was the experienced partner, it was my responsibility.”

Harry is still asking questions, and I am starting to think wistfully of that lovely space under the bed where I used to hide when I was little. “When did Hermione get a chance to make you promise? You two haven’t talked in months.”

“Letter,” I say, horribly embarrassed. “The letter the other day.”

Harry is completely silent for a moment then he chortles incredulously, “Hermione lectured you on safe sex in the _same letter_ that she used to tell you she’s got a new boyfriend?”

I feel a small tickle of amusement and allow myself a smile. I meet Harry’s sparkling eyes and add, “Told me the name of a book to read and everything.”

It breaks the tension and we both burst into peals of laughter.

“Oh dear,” Harry says a long moment later, wiping his eyes. “I think we can safely say she’s forgiven you, mate.”

Then he’s drawing me close, and kissing me hard, and Hermione is completely forgotten.


	23. Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron take things to the next level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the following people whose prompts I used in this chapter:
> 
> caelieth - 'sod it'  
> chiarore - puppy  
> star54kar - shatter, embrace  
> massielita - quiver(s), seizure, insatiable

_AS Adam, early in the morning,  
Walking forth from the bower, refresh’d with sleep;   
Behold me where I pass—hear my voice—approach,   
Touch me—touch the palm of your hand to my Body as I pass;   
Be not afraid of my Body._

_WALT WHITMAN – Leaves of Grass_

 

Harry’s hands are all over my naked skin, and mine are all over his, and I’ve almost forgotten that he’s calling the shots. It feels natural, it feels _right_ to follow every move he makes with my own echo. 

His tongue keeps darting swiftly in and out of my mouth, so I follow it with my own tongue into his, and he _sucks_ on it right at the same moment his fingers stroke the nape of my neck. Who knew that there was some connection between my bloody _neck_ and my cock? There is, though, because that fleeting touch makes my head spin. I return the favour, sucking hard on Harry’s tongue as I do it, and he _quivers_ and his whole body makes this little involuntary jerk. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I wonder how on earth I’m going to last and not just come in my pants before we even get anywhere.

His fingers skim down to lightly circle the areole around my nipples, making them tighten and swell. When he pinches them sharply without warning I moan. I feel his lips curve into a smile against mine. I’d never given much thought to my nipples before. They seemed to be more or less useless ornamentation on the expanse of my chest. Harry has continued with the little pinches, adding a little twisting in there too as he rubs the hard buds between his thumb and forefinger, and I’ve suddenly been made a big fan of my own nipples. Brilliant things.

When I tweak Harry’s he arches his back and _whimpers_ like a puppy. His head tilts back and he bites down on that red lip of his, which is the same deep colour that his nipples are rapidly becoming beneath my fingertips. I can’t help but lean forward and kiss his exposed neck and he gives a gentle sigh. The fingers of one of his hands weave themselves in my hair while the other trails up and down my spine, giving me goose bumps. Harry’s pulse under my lips is racing.

“You ‘kay?” I murmur against his skin.

“Mmhmm,” he confirms, rubbing his cheek against my hair before flexing his neck a little more to allow me better access to his jaw line.

The hand on my back has slipped down and is squeezing my arse, and I silently curse my half-dressed state. Harry seems to have had the same idea, because that same hand slips around a moment later to wrestle with the fly of my pants. Our eyes meet, and we freeze, stuck in that moment of realisation.

“Are you frightened?” Harry asks, his voice unsteady, his eyes large.

“Terrified,” I admit. I sound it too. There’s a crack in my voice that hasn’t bothered me since I was fifteen.

“Me too,” he says, before kissing me ardently.

He’s still fumbling with my clothing, his hands clumsy and impatient. 

“Sod it!” he mutters in irritation. I can’t help but laugh at his brow which is furrowed in fury at the awkward reality of lovemaking.

“Here,” I say. “Let me.”

I stand up and, facing him, unbutton my pants and let them gape. My erection is obvious; straining against the thin fabric of my boxers. Harry’s tongue quickly darts out and moistens his lips. His hands move up the sides of my thighs, to my hips, to my naked waist, then they slip between the thicker fabric of my pants and the thinner one of my underwear, curving around to cup my arse and forcing me to take a step closer to him. The bulge in my boxers is at his eye level, and so _close_ to him. He strokes it lightly with the back of his forefinger, and my cock gives a visible twitch. I hiss, and my knees threaten to buckle. Harry hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my pants and tugs them down to pool at my ankles. I bend down and make short work of removing my shoes and socks, then kick them all aside. 

Harry stands and wraps his arms around my waist. “Your turn,” he breathes.

The button on his jeans is already undone. I can feel the heat radiating from him as I unzip the fly. The movement of the fabric against him makes him utter a soft little cry and thrust forward, and without meaning to I end up holding him, his jeans partway down his thighs.

It’s the first time I’ve touched him, even through clothing. He’s so hot and hard and _perfect_ in my hand. He hasn’t flinched away. In fact, I’m not sure if he’s breathing for a few seconds. But then his hands grip my waist tightly and his hips push forwards _again_ , driving his erection into the palm of my hand. 

“Oh, _God…Ron!_ ” he groans. 

I whimper and give him a little squeeze. Harry sways and clings to me for balance. His hands slip down to my arse. I copy him and we both pull each other a little closer at the same moment and end up gasping for air. My cock is pressing into his hard stomach, and his is nestled under mine, nudging my balls. I can’t hear anything except the rushing of our breath and the thunder of my heart beat. His hands grip my arse tightly, and we thrust once… _twice_ …I can hear my own moans, feel something building…

I swallow hard. “Harry…I’m not…I won’t last…” I whine.

His reply is rough and desperate. “I…I don’t want to wait…don’t want to wait any longer…”

He moves back just a fraction, and shuffles out of his jeans and… _oh sweet Merlin_ …his boxers. I ease down my own underwear, not taking my eyes from him. _We’re really doing this._

“Yes, we are,” Harry replies, taking my hand and pulling me down on to the bed. We’re side by side for only a moment before Harry kisses me deeply and pushes me with a firm hand to lie flat on my back. He climbs on top, lying between my legs, and the hot, heavy weight of his cock comes to rest on my belly.

His eyes as he looks down at me beneath him are burning with some urgent, insatiable inner fire. “Mine,” he growls softly.

“Yours,” I gasp. And then he begins to move. 

It’s clumsy at first, but we readjust a little a couple of times and finally hit on a position that’s just right. Harry is resting his weight on his forearms, with his hands gripping my shoulders from behind for leverage. My ankles are locked behind his knees and my hands are gripping his arse so I can thrust hard against him. Our skin is slick with sweat and precome and we’re both grunting and straining and moaning and swearing and it’s chaotic and awkward and brilliant and mind-blowingly fantastic all at once. It’s almost too much but at the same time I wish it would go on forever. 

Then Harry’s whole body tenses, he throws his head back and screams, and he trembles like he’s having a seizure. A hot wetness gushes across my stomach and my cock is sliding slickly through Harry’s come, and I feel myself shatter into a thousand thousand pieces, arching up against him and letting out an almighty shout.

We’re wrung out and limp and Harry is nestled in my embrace a short while later when he gives a little nervous giggle. “Oh…oh dear,” he murmurs.

“What?” I ask, too groggy and half-asleep to be worried.

“Um…we…we forgot to set a Silencing Charm,” Harry informs me.

Had it been any other time, I would have been mortified. Instead, I just chuckle sleepily and wrap my arms tighter around the man I love.


	24. Discomposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Consummation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little smut, a little humour, a whole lot of humiliation. Very like Morning, but with so many differences. Read it, and you'll see what I mean.

I swim up through the layers of sleep to the surface of awareness, alertness. The sounds of birds and the odd clatter from downstairs are filtering into the room along with weak, early morning sunlight. And there’s a long, warm somebody snuggled up to my back with their arm curled over my body and their breath tickling the back of my neck with every exhalation. Ron.

[](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v510/shadnred/discomposure.png) _click for larger image_

There’s the initial jolt of panic. My muscles tense, my heart taps a little faster and my breaths come short and shallow…but it passes almost as quickly as it came. I let out a deep sigh, releasing the last of the anxiety. Ron makes a small contented sound and grips me a little tighter…and I’m fine.

_I slept with him. I had sex with him. And I’m okay._

My half-hard cock gives a feeble twitch at the thought of sex, but I ignore it. As wonderful as the night before was, I need time to digest the new developments in our relationship before trying for a repeat performance.

_Oh God…a repeat performance…_

Another little pulse. It probably doesn’t help that I’m wrapped in an unconscious, very naked Ron Weasley, whose own morning glory is nudging my lower back, giving my brain all kinds of hints as to what I could be _doing_ to it. What _he_ could be doing to _me_.

I swallow hard.

Mentally admonishing myself very firmly, I wriggle free from Ron (who rolls onto his belly and begins to snore), shrug on my pyjamas and escape to the bathroom to relieve some tension. It doesn’t take long. Last night gave me enough masturbatory images to last a lifetime. It’s the memory of Ron cupping me, his fingertips _just_ brushing my balls, that sends me over the edge.

The mirror tuts, disapprovingly. "You'll go blind, you know."

"Shut up," I mumble, flushing, as I tuck my spent cock back into my pyjama pants and turn on the tap to wash my hands.

Freshened up and slightly more at ease, I wander down to the kitchen, only to come to a freezing halt just outside the doorway. 

_Shit._

I’d forgotten our little oversight last night up until now. I’m just wondering whether I can hide upstairs forever when I hear Mrs Weasley call out, “Kettle’s on, Harry!”

_Fuck!_

No escape. No reprieve. No choice but to step through that doorway into the kitchen and take my chances.

I had been hoping against all hope that this morning the kitchen would be empty. Even just Mrs Weasley, as on many mornings it was, would have been preferable. No such luck. Mr Weasley is reading the _Daily Prophet_ while taking large mouthfuls of tea from a lurid mug that flashes from _Who needs hair with a body like this?_ to _Hey baby, want to come upstairs and see my spark plugs?_ Mrs Weasley is frying eggs on the stove and stirring something in a large pot. And just to make things infinitely worse, George has chosen today to pop in for breakfast and is ploughing into a plate of sausages and bacon with Weasley gusto. 

_Brilliant. Just fantastic._

The yellow tea service is out and waiting for me on the countertop. I run the gauntlet, quickly mumbling ‘hello’ and ‘good morning’, and snatch up the tea caddy as though it’s a Portkey ready to leave.

At first I think they’ve forgotten me. It’s true, Mrs Weasley doesn’t _quite_ make eye contact with me when she passes me the kettle and I think she blushes a bit when I say thank you, but I try to brush it off as a coincidence. She’s busy making breakfast, after all, and maybe she’s just hot from standing over the frying pan. 

But then…

“Sleep well last night, Harry?” Mr Weasley asks, cheerily. 

Mrs Weasley drops a dish with a clatter. 

_Is he winding me up?_ my frantic brain gibbers. Heat floods my face, and I’m sure it’s glowing like the sun. I eventually gabble something vaguely affirmative. 

“Excellent,” he says, grinning.

He does seem to have a twinkle in his eye and a quirk to his lips that I’ve seen before on the twins when they were up to no good. And, speaking of the twins, George has been distracted from his meal and is glancing back and forth from myself to his Dad with a look of dawning comprehension.

I finish loading up the tray hastily and start to make my way across the kitchen.

“So,” George drawls, “Does Ronniekins get his tea in bed _every_ morning? Or just the mornings after you –”

He breaks off with a yelp as a ladle whaps him on the back of the head. I disappear as quickly up the stairs as is possible with a fully laden tea tray.

Ron is semi-conscious when I sidle into the bedroom and set down the tray.

“Mmmm…morning…” he murmurs, as I sit next to him. I’m grateful that he doesn’t hug me. He just smiles, reaches across and takes my hand the way he’s done every time I’ve woken him over the last month. It’s familiar and comforting, and almost enough to make me forget that I want to die of embarrassment.

“Hey? Waz wrong?” Ron slurs, his brow creasing as he looks up at my crestfallen face.

“They…they know. They heard. Last night,” I mumble.

Ron blinks blankly for a moment then his face becomes a picture of woe. “Oh, _no_ …Mum?”

I nod.

“Not _Dad_ too?”

“I think he would have made jokes about it if your mum hadn’t been there,” I admit miserably.

He looks chagrined, then suddenly terrified. He studies my face intently, with desperation. “No. Not today. _Please_ …Don’t tell me George was down there _too?_ ”

“He _did_ make jokes about it.”

Ron buries his face in his pillow and yells for a while. I pour out the tea. I’ll need it to bolster my confidence for the not too distant future, when we have to walk downstairs for breakfast.


	25. Vocabulary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teddy Lupin turns one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little scene from Teddy's party. Towards the end of April. I thought this would be too long to be a drabble but not long enough for a proper chapter, and I was right. But I'll call it a chapter anyway, for ease of cataloguing.

“’Oo’s the big boy? ’Oo’s Uncle Ronnie’s big boy? ’Oo’s my Sunshine?”

I watch with a kind of perplexed amusement as my lover loses all grasp on the English language in the presence of a toddler.

“’Oo izzy? _Yes!_ ” Ron crows when golden-haired Teddy Lupin points a chubby finger at himself. “Teddy’s Uncle Ronnie’s big birthday boy!” Teddy chortles and bounces in Ron’s large Keeper’s hands, clapping his own chubby palms together in absolute glee.

Ron drops to a confiding tone. “Now, Teddykins, listen to Ronnie. Say ‘bollocks’.”

“Are you corrupting my godson?” I ask, in a dry, sardonic tone I think Remus himself would have been proud of.

“No,” Ron says, unashamedly. “It’s educational. Teddy? ‘Bollocks’.”

“I’m pretty sure I can challenge you to a duel over that.” I say, lazily, too full to move after Molly and Andromeda’s party food and too many glasses of celebratory mead. “It’s written somewhere, some wizarding law. Hermione showed me.”

“Bollocks,” says Ron, disbelievingly.

“Bo-ox,” says Teddy Lupin clearly.

“Now you’ve done it,” I say with dismay. 

Ron has never looked prouder.

Andromeda chooses that moment to cross the room and cluck over her grandson.

“Teddy just said a new word!” Ron declares with parental enthusiasm and complete innocence.

“Bo-ox,” Teddy chirps angelically, beaming up at his grandmother with a toothy grin.

I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion. Instead Andromeda’s face expresses nothing but delight. “Who’s my clever boy! That’s right! ‘Box!’ ”

“Bo-ox!”

Andromeda gives Teddy a gentle pat on the cheek and a kiss and goes back to circulating amongst the guests.

Ron gives me a cheeky grin. I shake my head.

“You’re lucky she didn’t know what he was _really_ saying,” I say grimly. “Otherwise she would have had your –”

“Bo-ox?” Teddy says enquiringly, his brow furrowed.

“Exactly,” I conclude.

Ron flashes me his most winning smile.

“Smug bastard.”

Teddy cocks his head. “Ba-ud?”

“No,” I say desperately. “Please. Not that one. Your grandmother will _kill_ me.”

“Ba-ud.”

Ron raises an eyebrow and looks like the Kneazle that got the cream. “Now who’s the bad influence?”


	26. Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest interrupts dinner at the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably sprang from reading Shari's [Deluminating](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3880365/1/Deluminating) and rewatching OotP the other night. 
> 
> I'm afraid it's not a terribly original idea, but I really liked a lot of the character interaction and reactions that sprang from it. It also spun out into over 2,700 words, so I've split it into two, of which this is the first half.

A sharp _crack_ echoes outside in the yard, making Mum, Dad, George, Percy and me all look up from our dinner plates and swivel around.

“I thought you said Harry was working late tonight, Ron?” Mum says, resting her laden fork back down.

I’m blinking in surprise myself. “I did…he is...”

“Well then I wonder who-” 

Mum’s speculation is cut off by the loud thudding of a fist against wood. 

“I’ll get it,” George, who is the closest, volunteers.

Another insistent rally of pounding is shaking the door in its frame when he reaches it and turns the handle. When the door swings wide, Mum makes a terrible sound; a little cry of utter pain and grief.

Illuminated in the wash of light from inside is a tall, square-framed man with pale, almost colourless eyes and a short scrub of greying, sandy hair.

Leaning heavily against him, apparently only semi-conscious, is Harry.

I feel a horrible jolt of terror. There’s a flurry of movement as everyone scrambles to their feet around me, the meal forgotten. George immediately steps forward and takes Harry’s arm over his own shoulders. Percy is there a second later, taking the other side, helping Harry into a chair and holding him upright. Mum, revived from her momentary shock, quickly kneels in from of him, patting his cheeks and murmuring soothingly.

“Evan, _what happened?_ ” Dad demands, and for the first time I realise that this is Harry’s boss, the Head of the Aurors, not just some random colleague. 

“He’ll be all right, Arthur,” Campester reassures him hastily. “But he should have some chocolate, if you’ve any handy. And probably a large brandy, too.” 

“ _Chocolate?_ ” I explode, incredulous. “What the fuck did you _do?_ Stick him in a room full of Dementors?!”

“ _Ron_ ,” Dad says warningly, in a low voice. 

I ignore him and continue to stare down the Auror still hovering in the doorway. Campester doesn’t flinch away or pretend he hasn't heard me. Instead, he addresses me directly. 

“No, Mr Weasley,” he says, “Chocolate is used as a standard first treatment for several forms of psychic assault, only one of which is attack by Dementor or Lethifold.” Campester pauses, then continues more gently, “If I’m to explain to you exactly what happened tonight, we should probably get settled somewhere. It’s going to take quite a while.”

“Of course,” Dad exclaims, sounding apologetic. “Forgive us, Evan. You’ve given us all quite a nasty shock, and you’re not seeing any of us at our best, I’m afraid.” He follows this with a firm, quelling glance in my direction, which I answer with a little shake of my head.

 _I am_ not _going to back off._

I catch Campester looking at me with an air of curious assessment when I face him again, but before I can say something that probably would have been quite rude and confrontational, Dad is leading him through into the lounge room.

“Ready, Perce?” George asks, sliding an arm under Harry’s again.

“Yes.”

“Okay, up you come then,” George says, as he and Percy lift Harry between them and help him to walk. Mum walks backwards in front of them, chattering things like, “Mind that!” and “Turn a little more! You’re going to hit the doorframe.” I follow, almost on their heels. 

They manoeuvre him across the cluttered space and into an armchair near the fireplace. George meets my eyes and steps back out of the way so that I can get in close enough to perch on the arm of the chair.

Harry’s eyes flutter open, and he looks up at me, slightly dazed. “Ron?” His voice is barely more than a whisper, and sounds dry and cracked. My heart breaks.

“Shhh, don’t talk,” I murmur. “It’s me. It’s alright. You’re home. You’re safe.” It just about kills me to not reach out and hold his hand, stroke his face.

Mum bustles off and comes back with a large block of chocolate, which she begins to snap into pieces. “Only cooking chocolate, I’m afraid,” she mutters, mainly to herself.

Dad presses a glass of amber liquid into my hand and I help Harry to sip at it, though he grimaces at the strong spirits. Behind me, I hear Dad asking Campester if he wants a brandy himself.

“If you don’t mind, Arthur, I will,” he says, sounding weary. “It’s been a very long and trying day.” He drinks the whole glass in one slow swallow before setting the empty tumbler down and beginning to speak. “There was an incident in training today, between Potter and another trainee. A serious incident. One which could have cost Potter his career as an Auror, had we not taken the time to investigate it properly.”

“ _Investigate?_ ” I hear Dad ask weakly. “When _exactly_ did this happen?”

“Approximately two thirty this afternoon,” Campester answers.

“ _What?_ ” I exclaim.

“He’s been like this since _two thirty?!_ ” George roars, turning a brilliant shade of crimson.

“No, Mr Weasley. Until half an hour ago, Potter was unconscious. And for a very good reason. Please let me explain.”

George subsides reluctantly.

“For the last week, the recruits, including Potter, have been working intensively on Occlumency and Legilimency with a Senior mentor. As you probably already know, we require a certain degree of proficiency in both disciplines. This afternoon was the first practical exercise with trainees practicing their skills on each other. The other trainee had shown a talent for Legilimency, and Potter had expressed a desire to improve his Occlumency. I partnered them together. It was a mistake.”

Percy broke the short silence that followed these words. “An Unforgivable Curse,” he murmurs, before looking hard at Campester. “I’m right, aren’t I? For there to have been an investigation, he must have used an Unforgivable Curse during the exercise.”

I hear Mum gasp. I glance at Harry’s face for confirmation, but he seems to have drifted off to sleep.

“Not an Unforgivable, no, but a Dark curse nonetheless, and one he had a prior record of using, whilst a student at Hogwarts. The Sectumsempra.”

George flinches and one of his hands brushes the side of his head where his hair covers the absence of an ear. 

I have another little explosion.

“ _Sectumsempra?_ That was against _Malfoy_ when he was about to use _the Cruciatus Curse_ on him! It was _self defence!_ ”

“I know that, Mr Weasley. Mr Malfoy Junior told me as much himself when I interrogated him last year about his activities as a Death Eater. He took Veritaserum voluntarily and made what we believe to be a full account of his actions.”

I bare my teeth and prepare to say exactly what I think of Malfoy when Campester holds up a hand, staying me. “Please, Mr Weasley.”

“Fine,” I snap.

“The exercise was simple. The person assigned as the Occlumens was to protect their mind, the other was to try and skim a thought or a memory from the surface of the mind of their opponent. I was observing several pairs, and only saw the end result of their bout. Potter was unconscious, and the other trainee was bleeding heavily from a deep slash across his face. He claimed Potter had attacked him with unnecessary force, and without warning.”


	27. Verisimilitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Campester explains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a softy, here's Part Two. Follows immediately from Accusation.

The room erupts.

“Surely you can’t believe-”

“You’ve got to be _joking!_ ”

“No _fucking way_ would Harry-”

“Evan, it’s preposterous-”

“The young man I know would never-”

“I didn’t believe him,” Campester says firmly. “Potter was unconscious, and that didn’t make any sense if he’d just attacked the other trainee. But there was no way to know without-”

“…asking him,” Dad finishes.

Campester nods, looking a little grim. “And even if I did ask him, and he denied it, he’d still cast a Dark curse. It would have been a permanent mark on his record. If we discovered he’d cast it deliberately, as the other trainee claimed, he’d be out of the program immediately. I had no choice. I had to know the truth. I cleared the area, had the other trainee taken to an interview room, and I performed Legilimens on Potter.”

“Don’t you have to look someone in the eyes to do that?” George asks, stunned. “How did you see into Harry’s head if he was knocked out?”

“I am an above-average Legilimens. Interrogation was my specialty before I became Department Head. When a person’s defences are weak or damaged, sometimes I am able to access their minds by touching them, even if they are unconscious.”

George whistles appreciatively, then looks a little sheepish when I glare at him.

“Potter’s mind showed clear signs of a recent, brutal assault. He had been rendered unconscious by the struggle to force the other trainee out of his mind. As he had cast the curse immediately prior to collapsing, it was highly unlikely he had any control over it.”

There is a general sigh of relief, and Mum murmurs, “Oh, thank _goodness_.”

“Under the advice of a Healer, we kept Potter unconscious to help give his mind time to recover from the attack before we made any attempt to revive him.”

Campester pauses, then continues with a look of mild distaste.

“The interrogation of the other trainee took several hours, and required the administration of Veritaserum to get the full story. He had apparently harboured a deep resentment of Potter since his admission into the Aurors. He was jealous of Potter’s celebrity status, and had amassed a catalogue of imagined slights and times he thought he was overlooked unfairly by myself and the other Senior Aurors in favour of Potter. He decided many months ago to enact some form of revenge when he got an opportunity that would satisfy his anger and result in Potter’s expulsion.”

“He must be mad,” Mum murmurs in a quavering voice.

“Not mad,” Campester sighs, “just a young man with a lot of bitterness and hatred. The fault is mine. I should have seen the signs long before now, but he hid them well. He would never have progressed to Senior status regardless, with the flaws in his character running so deep.”

“He should be punished,” I grind out through my clenched teeth, my fists knots of flesh and bone on my lap.

“He has been punished, Mr Weasley,” Campester says, in an understanding tone. “He has been expelled from the Aurors, and must now find himself a new career. Also, Potter’s curse has left him with a rather nasty facial disfigurement which he will have to live with for the rest of his life.”

“It’s not enough,” I spit.

“He will have difficulties finding employment,” Campester continues, looking only at me. “As we unfortunately must do with a very small number of our recruits who fail in their traineeship, we have had to severely modify his memory to remove all classified information. I assume you know how much damage altering that large an amount of memories can do?”

I instantly think of Guilderoy Lockhart, still locked in the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo’s, with the attention span and short term memory of a goldfish. “Yes.”

“He has been told that he suffered a serious blow to the head during Physical Defence that has left him unfit for work as an Auror. He has been given a small severance bonus, but I doubt it will sustain him for long if he fails to find an understanding employer or a relative who is willing to take him in and support him. Do you think that’s enough?”

I nod, discovering to my surprise that my anger has dissipated. Nothing I could do to the man could really make his life much worse than it will be. I feel grimly satisfied.

“His memories of this afternoon have also been completely Obliviated, of course. Anything he may have managed to glean from Harry’s mind has been erased. You needn’t fear that you will find any secrets from Harry’s personal life splashed across the front page of tomorrow’s _Prophet_.”

“Oh,” I say softly. I glance down again at Harry, sleeping soundly, an uneaten piece of chocolate melting between his warm fingers.

“Secrets?” asks Percy, confused.

“I understand,” I answer quietly. “He knows.”

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Campester says gently, sounding genuinely contrite. “You must realise I couldn’t help but see.”

“I know.”

“See _what?_ I’m sorry, but I don’t-” Percy begins.

“He knows that Harry and I are together,” I say, giving into temptation and smoothing Harry’s hair back from his brow. “He knows that we’re lovers.”

Percy flushes scarlet and gapes comically. “Er…okay…ah…well. That’s…ah…new. When did you start…ah…liking…er…men?” Percy’s attempt at a casual, conversational tone comes out rather squeaky and embarrassed.

George snorts. “What? Are you _blind_ or something? It’s not half obvious. What did you _think_ was going on?”

Percy makes a spluttering, indignant noise.

“Would you mind if I use your Floo?” Campester interrupts, before the argument can really begin. “I’m exhausted, and I’d rather not Apparate after that brandy. Martha will be wondering where I am.”

“Of course,” Dad says, standing. “Right through here. It’s the one in the kitchen.”

Mum crosses the room to take Campester’s hand as they walk through the doorway. “Thank you so much for bringing him home.”

“Harry, love,” I say, stroking his cheek. “Wake up.”

“What did I tell you?” George says, smugly. “Obvious.”

Harry stirs, but he seems groggy and confused. “Can one of you help me get him up to bed?” I ask.

“I will,” Percy offers.

The journey up the stairs is slow and clumsy. Once in our bedroom, Percy holds Harry steady while I take off his heavy outer robes. Together we lie Harry down on his bed as gently as we can. 

I’m bending over to unlace Harry’s shoes when I realise Percy is hovering rather awkwardly. “Er…I can manage from here, thanks, Perce,” I say, as kindly as I can.

“Er…right.” He hovers for a moment longer then blurts out, “You know it’s not important, don’t you?”

I drop Harry’s shoes on the floor and move up to remove his glasses and unbutton his shirt. “What’s not important?”

Percy lifts Harry’s torso up off the bed so I can slip the shirt from his shoulders. “Er… _this_. You…you and Harry.” He lowers him back down carefully. “I just might need a while. To…to get used to it, that’s all.”

I scrub at my face with a hand. “I’m sorry, Perce. I should have told you ages ago. It’s just…well…Mum and Dad and George all knew before I talked to them about it. I suppose I thought you knew already, too.” I move to undo the fly on Harry’s pants and hesitate.

“It’s okay,” Percy says. “You’ll probably need my help getting them over his hips, anyway.”

I bite back a nervous giggle. Percy surprises me with a grin. “I’d imagine he was helping you, last time. Or at least wasn’t unconscious and all floppy.”

“No, he _definitely_ wasn’t floppy,” I murmur, and Percy gives a very un-Percyish snort.

“Ready then?” he asks.

“Er…yeah,” I say, before adding, “You’ll want to hold on to the top of his boxer shorts, otherwise you’re going to cop an eyeful.”

“Oh. Right.”

Percy lifts Harry’s hips, and I shimmy his trousers over the curve of his arse, down his legs and off, to lie with his other clothing in a pile at the end of the bed.

“Aren’t you going to put his pyjamas on?” Percy asks, as I tuck the duvet down around Harry.

“Nah,” I reply. “It’s a warm night. He’ll be fine.”

“Are you coming back down for dinner? Mum’s probably heated everything up again, by now.”

I shake my head, looking down at the still, sleeping form. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” I say, feigning a casual tone, before continuing more honestly. “I…I want to be here, in case he wakes up, you know? He’ll probably be pretty frightened. He’s lost half the day.”

“Okay, I’ll let them know.” Percy stands, and takes a few steps towards the door, before turning and giving me a small smile. “Goodnight, then.”

“’Night. Thanks.”

He slips from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. I shed my clothes, save for my boxers, and slide under the duvet beside Harry, pulling him close to my chest. His breath flutters against my skin and my hand cradles the back of his head, fingers tangled in the silky strands.

“You stupid, stupid bugger,” I whisper, my throat tight, my eyes watering. “What did you have to go and scare me like that for?”


	28. Convalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron assists with Harry's recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one this time, because it wasn't quite long enough to be split into two. Begins the morning after Accusation and Verisimilitude.

I wake, as is usual, in the thin light of dawn. What is not usual is the complete and utter lethargy I feel. Breathing seems an effort almost beyond my strength. My overfull bladder will not be denied, though, and I know by my inner sense of time that I’ll have to hurry to get to work. 

_Work…_

There is a blank. Well, not a blank, precisely, but a point where everything from the day before jumbles into nonsense and peters out into the nothingness of dreams. No matter how hard I reach, I can’t find those hours. 

And Ron…

Ron is beside me, relaxed in sleep, his arms around me. His bare chest beneath my cheek. My bare chest against his side.

_Did we have sex?_

I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything from the night before _at all_. It frightens me.

I try to wriggle out of Ron’s loose hold to escape to the bathroom, but my clumsy, listless movements only wake him up. He blinks vaguely at me for a moment, before a gentle smile breaks across his face.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re awake.”

“Yes,” I say stupidly, in return. 

Ron yawns hugely before asking in a tone of concern, “How are you feeling?”

“Er…” 

What can I say? How exactly do I bring up that I feel like I’ve been dragged for a few miles under the Hogwarts Express and I appear to have some kind of amnesia?

Ron rescues me. “You had an accident at work yesterday,” he says gently. “Don’t worry, it _wasn’t_ your fault and you probably won’t remember it. Or coming home. You were pretty out of it.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then we didn’t…um…?” I gesture back and forth between us.

“No. I just stayed with you.”

I feel more relieved than I ever thought I would be to know that Ron and I _hadn’t_ had sex. “Oh. That’s okay, then. Because I don’t. Remember, that is.”

Ron asks me again, “So how do you feel?”

“Pretty shit, actually,” I admit frankly.

“Would you like some tea?” Ron asks, brushing my fringe back from my forehead.

Tea is actually one of the few things I can think of that doesn’t make my stomach churn. “Um…yeah. Thanks. I…I think I need some help first, though.”

“Yeah?”

I feel my face flush red with embarrassment. “I…I need to piss, and I don’t know if I can get to the bathroom.”

Ron doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh. Instead he nods, slides from the bed and helps me up onto my wobbly legs. We negotiate the stairs one step at a time. He even holds me steady while I piss and turns the taps on and off for me. By the time he gets me back up to bed, I’m sweating and panting like I’ve played a hard game of Quidditch.

“I don’t…I don’t think…I’m going to be able…to go to work today…” I gasp as he helps me lie back down. 

Ron snorts derisively. “You _think?_ ”

“I have…have to Floocall. D’n wanna…lose m’job…” I mumble, my eyelids drooping.

“Leave it to me,” Ron says, tucking the duvet back down over me. I don’t even hear him leave the room a moment later.

As it turned out, Floocalling wasn’t necessary. Campester had left a letter behind the night before ordering me to take a week off, and telling me that if he saw me in the Auror Department or Wheezes before then that he’d fire me for being too stupid to listen to a Healer’s advice.

Then, to make sure I stick to it, he’d told Molly Weasley.

The first day, I didn’t seem to do anything except eat, sleep, and occasionally drag myself to the toilet with Ron’s help. It wasn’t the psychic damage that had me feeling so drained, it was the spells the Healer cast to help my mind recover. 

After Ron told me the details of the day before, I wondered for a while why my training partner had done so much damage. After all, I’d had all those sessions with Snape, who wasn’t exactly gentle, and though they wiped me out, they hadn’t left me unconscious. I found out later, when I learned more about Legilimency, what the difference was. 

Snape had been an excellent Legilimens. His technique had been comparable using C4 to crack a bank vault. Just the correct amount of pressure and no more in exactly the right point and my mind would open up like Aladdin’s cave for him, with minimal injury to me. Though my partner had had a talent for Legilimency, he was barely trained. His method had been more like a pipe bomb - all brute strength, no finesse. He had blasted into my mind full force, stirring up a lot of dust and doing a lot of damage, but basically getting nothing of value before I passed out.

The Healer’s spells made me giddy when I stood up for long, so even when I started sleeping less, I wasn’t able to do anything interesting. And on the third day, Ron had to go back to work at the Wheezes.

“Are you _sure_ you’ll be alright?” Ron asks, for the sixth time, his brow creased with genuine concern.

“ _Yes!_ ” I insist, looking up from the parchment I have spread out on a little lap desk. “You’re going to be late.”

Ron ignores my warnings of tardiness, cocking his head to try and read what I’m writing. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I’m sending a care package to Hermione,” I explain. At the blank look, I realise I have to elaborate. “The name comes from something Muggles did during a war fifty or so years ago, giving out things people needed. Nowadays, a care package is like a collection of little things you send to someone when they’re having a hard time.”

Ron goes a bit red in the face. “Hermione’s having a hard time? Did that bastard Boot-”

“No,” I quell any threats of violence towards Terry Boot firmly. “Her NEWTs start this week. It’ll be like OWLs all over again, only worse. She’s probably studying every waking hour and only sleeping two hours a night.”

Ron sniggers a little. “Oh, I don’t know. With a boyfriend this time around-”

“- who’s a Ravenclaw,” I remind him.

Ron blinks. “Oh, right. Forgot that.”

I smirk. “If they do have sex, it’ll only be when they’ve got it scheduled in on their matching study timetables.”

Ron laughs, then grimaces, obviously trying to repress mental images. “I’d better get to work,” he sighs, bending over and kissing the top of my head.

“Could you pick up some chocolate?” I ask, as he heads for the door. “And maybe some of those string-mints she likes? I’d get them myself but…”

“Sure,” he smiles. “Owl me if you think of anything else. And try and rest, okay?”

“Yes, _Mrs_ Weasley,” I grouch.

“Shut up,” he says, cheerfully, before waving goodbye and shutting the door behind him.

I finish the letter to Hermione in about five minutes. I’m bored already, and I have a whole day with absolutely nothing to do.

***************************

It’s only one thirty when George sends me home.

Well, actually, he says, “Piss off, you miserable git! You’re scaring away the customers.” before shoving me headfirst into the Floo.

“You’re home early, dear,” Mum says as I stumble out of the fireplace, coughing up soot. “Everything all right?”

“Er…fine,” I say hastily. “George said he could…ah…manage on his own for the rest of the day, if I wanted to spend time with Harry. While he…er…recovers.” 

Well, that _was_ the gist of it. Not really lying, was it?

Mum smiles from ear to ear. “That was lovely of him, wasn’t it?”

I consider the raised bump where I cracked my skull on the mantel as he propelled me forward into the green flames. “Yeah. Fantastic. I’ll have to thank him.”

Mum apparently misses the ice in my tone. “Harry finished his lunch not long ago. He said he was going to have a nap, poor dear. If you’re going up, be sure not to wake him, won’t you?”

“Sure, Mum.”

I climb the stairs slowly and carefully, stepping over those I know creak the loudest, but I come to a halt outside our bedroom door when the unmistakable buzz of the Muffliato Charm begins to ring in my ears. My mouth goes dry. 

Whatever Harry is doing in there, I doubt it involves sleeping.

After a moment’s hesitation, I _Alohomora_ the door, and slip inside.

Harry is lying naked on the bed, frowning in concentration, his lovely crimson lip caught between his teeth. His right hand is sliding slowly, rhythmically, hypnotically, up and down his shaft while his left caresses his body, tweaking a nipple before sliding down his chest and belly to lightly brush his balls.

I hear myself moan and his eyes fly open and fix on mine, the pupils dilated, the green reduced to a narrow ring around the black. He doesn’t speak, just reaches out to me with his left hand while his right keeps up that beautiful pace. I step forward, slipping my hand into his. Harry pulls me down to sit beside him, then forward into a bruising kiss. His mouth is hot and he smells of sweat and sex, and I feel slightly dizzy at the sudden rush of blood to my cock.

“Want you,” he mutters against my lips. “Want you touching me.”

Harry’s left hand tugs my right urgently down his body until my knuckles are resting against his cock – _Harry’s cock_ – and although I know I should be asking if he’s ready and if it’s okay, my hand curls around his length automatically and his right hand folds itself over mine and together our hands begin to _move_.

I forget for a moment how to breathe. He’s so hard and hot in my hand, the skin so silky. His kisses are hungry and desperate, and the sounds he’s making are needy whimpers. On the next stroke I rub the ball of my thumb across the moist head of his cock and he groans, his lids fluttering as his eyes roll up into his head. 

“Merlin, you’re gorgeous,” I pant, fumbling my fly open to slip my left hand inside and fondle my own erection. Harry is thrusting up into my hand now, and I know from the little cries he’s making that he’s getting close. His left hand slips down to squeeze his balls just as I swipe my thumb over the head of his cock again, and that’s what sends him over the edge, his body arching up off the bed, his face flushing with colour as he comes hard.

I continue to rub myself till he reaches over, bats my hand away and those strong, slender fingers of his wrap themselves around me. Harry keeps the pace tantalisingly slow until I’m grinding my teeth with the agony of it, then without warning he begins pumping me at a frantic speed and my almost immediate orgasm stuns me with its suddenness and ferocity.

I’m lying back, my head about level with Harry’s knees, sticky, wrung out and bathed in sweat. I take in another big gulp of oxygen, listening to the pounding of the blood in my head. I’m still fully dressed. I didn’t even have time to take my shoes off. 

“You,” I begin in a mock-admonitory tone, “...were _supposed_...to be resting.”

“Got bored,” Harry mumbles sleepily, unabashed.


	29. Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As someone else so eloqently said, "The excrement hits the overhead cooling device."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to warn for TENSE here. Because you're seeing in retrospect what actually happened, everything in the next two chapters is written in **past tense** , which, considering the series up till now has all been **present tense** may be jarring.
> 
>  **READ THE GRAPHIC FIRST. If you do not, this chapter and the ones that follow it will not make sense.**
> 
> If you CANNOT see or read the graphic because of your computer or internet speed, firewall settings or visual impairment, you can read the article in plain, large Verdana font by [CLICKING HERE](http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mshadow/skeeter1.html) or going to http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mshadow/skeeter1.html . I apologise in advance for the popups.

  


************************************

** Yesterday **

The night began awkwardly.

It had been Hermione’s idea, of course, and it turned out to be a popular one. I’d never seen the Three Broomsticks so full. A chance for people to mingle and talk and wind down after their NEWTs, she’d said. An opportunity to spend time together when all too soon everyone would be going their separate ways.

Or, as just about everyone except Hermione saw it, a chance to get together, get drunk and try not to think about the anniversary of the battle of Hogwarts in a weeks’ time. 

To say I’d been reluctant to go would be an understatement. The last time I’d seen most of these people had been at the dozens of funerals held after the end of the War. In the end, though, she wore me down.

 _You can’t get out of it that easily_ , she wrote, when I tried to use the excuse that I hadn’t been to Hogwarts as a student for nearly two years. _Oliver, Cho, Lee and George are going to be there, and they’ve all been out of school for longer than you. And the Patils have gone to the trouble of applying for an International Portkey all the way from France. If you and Ron aren’t there by eight, I’ll come over and drag you into the Floo myself._

It was easier to just say yes, because, knowing Hermione, I didn’t doubt she meant it.

So rather than hiding in our room and locking the door with every charm and protective spell we could think of, on the night of the party we got a little dressed up. Nothing too fancy. Not _dress robes_ or anything, since the invitation said casual attire. Just something a bit nice. 

I slipped on a Muggle-style linen shirt in bottle green, a colour I knew by now Ron liked me in, given his reaction the first time I wore it. He’d flushed bright red and stammered rather a lot, before grabbing me firmly and kissing me. Later, he’d mumbled something in an embarrassed tone about my eyes, and my robes for the Yule Ball in our fourth year.

For Ron, I’d bought something special, and I desperately hoped he’d consent to wearing it, but I was too cowardly to ask. So I laid it out on his bed for him to find when he got back from his shower, went down to make myself a nervous cup of tea, and waited.

I was just starting to get twitchy when he shyly stepped into the kitchen, peering up at me through his fringe and his nearly transparent lashes, a bashful smile on his face. I realised I’d been staring for a long time, my mouth half open, when he asked, “So…it’s alright then? I don’t look silly?”

I shook my head very firmly, as if to stir myself out of a trance. 

The shirt was navy blue, and made of silk as soft as butter. It was _just_ tight enough across his shoulders and hung in gentle folds down his torso, puffing out a tiny bit before the tight cuffs on the sleeves. The dark colour made his hair seem incandescently vibrant, and his eyes were deep enough to drown in. He was wearing jeans that were loose and comfortable, and rode a little low on his hips, and it was all I could do to not press him up against the wall right then, in the middle of the Burrow’s kitchen, and make us very, very late for the party.

“Very good. Fucking gorgeous,” I murmured, when I regained the power of speech. Ron’s face glowed and he shuffled his feet a little, and I felt an insistent pulse of heat in my groin.

I licked my lips. “We have to leave. Now. If we wait any longer, I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you.”

I couldn’t help letting my hand slip to his arse and squeeze just before I Side-Alonged us out, though.

I grabbed Ron’s hand to stop us getting separated as we pushed our way into the crowded pub. People all around us were talking, laughing, and in some cases sobbing. The mood was good, but with a slight edge of hysteria, as though the old saying “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry” was holding firm. Most faces I knew immediately, some I knew only as acquaintances – that Ravenclaw who used to wear her hair in pigtails, that Hufflepuff who was really good at Astronomy – and of course, too many who were absent altogether.

And then there were the few that people skittered nervously around. Lavender Brown was seated at a table in one corner between the Patil twins, looking pale and overwhelmed. After four months in St Mungo’s she’d gone home to her family, but from what I’d heard, she was still frail. The curse that had hit her had done the worst of the damage, but she now had to live with the same problem as Bill Weasley – partial lycanthropy. 

I caught sight of a mop of bushy hair, and suddenly we were face to face with Hermione…and Terry.

Terry, who took one look at Ron, clenched his jaw, and tightened his arm around Hermione’s waist possessively.

I glanced sideways at Ron, intending to exchange a discreet, incredulous look at Terry’s territorial behaviour, only to see that Ron was looking back and forth between Terry and Hermione with his teeth slightly bared in what looked more like a snarl than the polite smile I thought he was trying for.

I turned to Hermione, and the weak joke I had planned in an attempt to break the tension died on my lips when I saw that her expression mirrored Ron’s so closely it was eerie, as her eyes flicked from me to him and back again.

“I need a drink,” I mumbled, and hastily exited in the direction of the bar.

With an ear out for the sounds of scuffling and curses flying, I drank my dram of Firewhiskey a bit faster than I should have.

“Hi there,” a voice murmured, as an arm slipped around my waist and a red-headed someone planted a peck on my cheek.

“Er…um…hi,” I stammered, taking half a step back from Ginny.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her brown eyes dancing. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, thankyou, and you’re gayer than a fruit basket.” She left her arm around me and ordered a glass of mead.

“I am not,” I retorted hotly.

“Are too,” she insisted cheekily, slapping some coins down. “You’re shagging my big brother, and you lost any heterosexual credibility when you bought him that shirt.”

“I…how do you know I bought his shirt?” I asked, flabbergasted.

Ginny just snorted. “Ron would never buy something like that for himself. He’s got no sense of fashion whatsoever with anything that’s more dressy than jeans or Quidditch robes. And if Mum had bought it, it’d be maroon.”

I had to admit that she had a point, but right at that moment, an enraged voice from behind us made my blood run cold.

“What in the _bleedin’ hell_ do you think ye're doing with yer mitts on _my_ girl, Potter?”

Auror trainee and Saviour of the world that I was, I made a noise that sounded very like ‘meep’.


	30. Commemoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's night is getting worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows on immediately from Exposure.

I turned, ever so slowly, to face the furious Seamus, Ginny’s arm slipping from my waist as I did so. His feet were set slightly apart, his hands balled into fists, and his eyes glimmered brightly with bloodlust.

“…Not…not what you think,” I squeaked.

Seamus took a menacing step closer to me, and I flinched instinctively. That’s when Ginny leaned over and smacked him across the back of the head.

“Leave him alone, Shay,” she said, smirking into her glass.

I watched with a kind of numbness borne of the shock generated by imminent death as Seamus dissolved into knee-slapping hysteria. “I’m sorry…” he chortled, completely and utterly without remorse, “but…yer _face_ …ye should…ye should have _seen_ it…”

“You _utter_ bastard,” I mumbled.

Tears started streaming down his cheeks and his face flushed rosy. “Ye…ye nearly _wet_ yerself!” he roared. “And they’re making a bleedin’ fairy like yerself an _Auror?!_ ”

Before I could gather up enough indignation to hex him, he pulled me into a bear hug and bought me a drink. After a momentary scan of the room and I placed Ron over on the far side with Luna and Dean. Ron had a rather vacant look on his face, but since Luna seemed to be doing most of the talking, that was perfectly normal. I allowed myself to relax a little.

Seamus had bought another round on the heels of the first, and wrapped himself casually around Ginny. I waited for the expected twinge of jealousy, but it didn’t come.

“You really _don’t_ care, do you?” asked Ginny, reading my mind again. “About Shay and I?”

“No,” I said honestly.

Her lips twisted in another smirk, and I just _knew_ she was thinking ‘gayer than a fruit basket’ so loudly I could almost hear it. I resisted a very childish impulse to stick my tongue out at her.

“So, how’s George?” she asked, her face suddenly grave, in a tone that suggested she’d been waiting to ask me since she’d approached me at the bar.

My eyes drifted automatically over to where Lee and George were standing. Lee was talking animatedly, gesticulating with his hands as he emphasised a point. George looked worn, but he was smiling. The lines in his face seemed to have softened a little, and to see him at ease again with Lee after their falling out six weeks ago was heartening.

“He’s…managing,” I answered. “Some days are worse than others.”

The last week or so, he had become increasingly sullen and moody. Ron had told George firmly two days ago that he was going to be coming to stay at the Burrow for the next two weeks whether he liked it or not, and George hadn’t even argued. He’d just packed a few belongings from the flat and come home, moving back into his old room and falling into the routine of life at the Burrow as though he’d never left. I knew the other Weasleys were concerned about a relapse into the apathy of a year ago. Keeping George close to home was as much to reassure themselves as to support him. I saw that same fear reflected in Ginny’s eyes, and Seamus was moving his hand in a slow circle on her back.

“He’ll be alright,” I said, trying to give her something to hold onto. 

_Having to rely on letters for news must be killing her_ , I realised. I made an immediate resolution to write to her more often. 

“Ron’s taking care of him,” I added, and at the flash of brightness in her eyes I realised I’d said the right thing. 

“I miss him,” she said simply, and I knew from her expression that we weren’t talking about George any more. “I miss all of them.”

“Me too,” I replied, staring into the dregs of my glass.

“I think of the kids our age I miss Colin the most,” she continued. “He was lovely.” Her lips curled up into a nostalgic smile. “Did you know that in our Second Year, Fred and George dared me to jinx his camera?”

“Sounds like something they’d do,” I agreed, smiling even though an ache had blossomed in my chest.

Ginny’s eyes sparkled with the retelling. “It reversed every photograph he’d taken, so that when he processed the film all he had were two dozen blurry pictures of his own nose.”

I burst out laughing in spite of myself.

“He thought he must have done something wrong, but then the _next_ batch came out the same he figured someone had done _something_ to it. When I fessed up, he didn’t get mad, he thought it was _brilliant_. He had me put the jinx on and off his camera half a dozen times, just so he could learn how I’d done it.”

The three of us chuckled a bit more then a heavy silence fell as each of us got lost in our own thoughts. Neville’s eyes met mine across the room and he shot me a cocky grin, but my responding smile fell flat. Though he had Hannah Abbott sitting in his lap, all I could see in my mind was him and Oliver Wood carrying Colin’s body during the ceasefire as I walked out to my death. I suddenly felt very ill, and excused myself hastily to be violently sick in the toilets.

A few minutes later, just when I’d finished throwing up and flushing away what felt like everything I’d ever eaten in my whole life, and some no doubt vital internal organs into the bargain, there was a gentle tap on the door of the cubicle.

“Harry?” Ron called, sounding nervous and worried. “Are you alright?”

I spat some residual bile into the bowl, futilely trying to evict the taste from my mouth. “Yeah,” I said, my voice unsteady. 

“Can I come in?”

I knew he wasn’t going to be reassured until he saw me, so I pointed my wand at the lock. “’s open.”

Ron crouched down near to where I was sitting, my cheek resting against the comforting coolness of the porcelain. His large, warm hands reached out to cup my face. 

“Ginny’s going spare outside, mate,” he said, his rough fingers stroking my clammy brow. “She said she’d said something that upset you.”

“Not her fault,” I insisted. “I’m just being stupid.”

I was certain that Ginny told him exactly what she’d been talking about, but he didn’t ask me any more questions, just gently pulled me close, and I allowed myself to relax into his embrace.

“My mouth tastes like puke,” I mumbled a minute or so later.

“I can fix that,” he said, carefully pushing me back a bit. “Open up.”

He pointed his wand at my tongue and cast a charm that made the inside of my mouth fizz for a second like I’d eaten sherbet. The rancid taste dissipated. “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know that one.”

“Mum,” he explained. “She always used to do that when one of us had been sick.”

“You’ll have to teach me. Works much better than toothpaste.” I gave him a weak smile, and he returned it.

“You going to come back out now, then?” he asked. “I think Hermione’s been looking for you.”

“Not to do violence on me, I hope. I’ve already been in fear of my life once tonight.”

Ron chuckled. “Nah. About ten seconds after you ducked off before, we just looked at each other and burst out laughing. Well, me and Hermione did, anyway,” he amended. “Terry just looked a bit confused. The dozy git,” Ron concluded quite smugly. “So, you coming?”

He helped me to stand, and I washed my face to make myself feel a bit more like a human and less like a wrung out dishrag. Ginny, who had been waiting outside for us the whole time, looked pale. 

“Just had a bit too much to drink too fast,” I told her. We both knew I was lying, but she nodded, and after squeezing my arm tightly, she went back to Seamus.

“ _Harry!_ ” Hermione cried when we reached her. She pulled me into a tight hug. Her cheeks were a bit flushed, and she immediately began to talk at a mile a minute. “I’ve been looking _all over_ for you! Listen. I think you should say something. I’ve just ordered a round for everyone…ah, here they are.”

A glass with a dram of Firewhiskey nudged my hand, and I could see people all around the room taking their drinks and looking around expectantly. “But…but I…” I protested futilely.

Ron squeezed my arm reassuringly as Hermione tapped her glass with her wand, the chiming sound magically amplified. The loud chatter lulled to a hush. All eyes were on me, and after a long moment I raised my glass and said the only thing I could think to say, although it was May, not December. “To absent friends.”

The old toast was echoed by everyone in the room, followed by a moment of silence, as we drank to those who should have been here, but weren’t. My throat was tight, and once the conversations around us resumed again, I was grateful beyond words for the comfort when Ron pulled me close and placed a gentle kiss on my lips.


	31. Persecution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys and Harry weather the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be a little confusing. Sorry about that. Begins immediately following Commemoration, but from Ron's POV. It's about twice as long as the chapters normally are, too, because I couldn't work out a way to break it up.
> 
> If you CANNOT see or read the graphic because of your computer or internet speed, firewall settings or visual impairment, you can read the article in plain, large Verdana font by [CLICKING HERE](http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mshadow/skeeter2.html) or going to http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mshadow/skeeter2.html . I apologise in advance for the popups.

“I want to go home,” Harry mumbled miserably into my ear, and I felt an ache glow in my chest. I wished more than anything that I could just say yes and Apparate us both out of there without hesitation.

“Just a little longer, love,” I whispered into his hair, holding him gently.

In the end, it was closer to an hour before we successfully made our apologies, extricated ourselves from the crowd and Flooed back to the Burrow. Harry fell out of the grate clumsily behind me, and I dove to catch him before he landed flat on his face.

Silently, we walked up the stairs to the bedroom. Harry was pale and vague, stumbling like a sleepwalker, but the moment the door was closed, his hands were all over me, his kisses desperate and insistent.

“Wait,” I said gently, trying to hold him back a little. “Maybe we should…talk or something.”

Harry shook his head firmly, his fingers working feverishly to undo the buttons on my shirt. “No. Not now. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I want to forget.” He slid his hands across the bare skin of my chest before working the shirt over my shoulders. “Make me forget, Ron,” he pleaded, his eyes huge and wild.

I hesitated for a long moment. It seemed somehow like taking advantage. I had a protective urge to wrap myself around him, barely touching him, as though he was something infinitely precious made of glass. But Harry’s eyes, his hands, the press of his body against me, were all demanding something different, something primal.

“Please, Ron,” he begged, and that despairing edge to his voice broke through my resistance. I bent down to meet his mouth in a searing kiss.

“Okay,” I murmured against his velvet lips, and he let out a sigh of relief, of release.

I cast a hasty series of charms and we made short work of our clothes, discarding them thoughtlessly every-which-where. Harry was clinging to me, kissing me frantically, and when I lifted him up to kiss him harder he wrapped his legs around my waist tightly. I walked awkwardly over to my bed, almost tripping over my jeans and a shoe, and laid us both down, still entwined. Harry was beneath me, his kisses clumsy, whimpering softly, pressing his pelvis up hard into mine. He looked so young, so vulnerable.

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice husky and raw. “I love you, and you’re mine, and you’re safe.” Then, before I could change my mind, I ground down against him.

It was intense, and it was quick, and there was no gentle teasing, no holding back or drawing out the moment. It was all ragged breaths, rough thrusts, little grunts and moans, and Harry’s hands splayed across my back, his short nails digging sharply into my skin. When he came it was with a cry like he was in pain, and tears streaming down his cheeks, his kisses salty. 

I cradled him in my arms until he sobbed and sniffled himself into exhausted sleep. It took me a long time to follow him. I was too busy watching over him, as if my vigilance could keep any nightmares at bay.

I only managed to snatch a few hours fitful rest before we were woken at six o’clock by the arrival of the first Howler.

*******************************

The days following the exposé were indescribably bad. After the first Howler, Harry appeared stunned and sick. After the dozen or so that followed over the next hour, he just looked resigned, his face lined and grey like a man ten years his senior. 

The _Daily Prophet_ delivery showed up somewhere in the middle, although by that point we all had some idea of what it would say. Still, seeing those words printed like that…

“Mum – we didn’t! I swear –” I began in a rush, my face flushing with shame.

“We believe you, Ron,” Dad said, his lips tight. 

“ _That woman_ is an amoral harpy!” Mum snapped, making a pot of tea with unnecessary aggression. “Always was! She should have been _drowned at birth!_ ”

“Molly, love, sit down,” Dad soothed.

“For goodness sake, Arthur, I have to do something with my hands,” she sniped back, virtually crackling with fury, “or I’ll end up marching down there and strangling her myself!”

For the next twenty four hours, Mum baked herself almost into exhaustion. At dinnertime the table groaned under the weight of dozens of dishes that Harry picked disconsolately at. 

Bill took the day off work to help ward the Burrow after we evicted one too many unwanted visitors.

“One of them Flooed into the kitchen first thing this morning,” he spat as his wand moved in intricate patterns. “I was in the shower. He frightened Fleur.” Fleur was heavily pregnant, and hadn’t been performing anything but the most essential of magics for the last month. 

Bill’s lip curled with distaste, and the expression plus his scarred visage made him appear quite feral. “He won’t be doing that again. _Nobody_ threatens my wife and child,” he concluded, just as the matrix was completed with a pulse of light.

“Blood wards,” he said conversationally to us as a group. “Best form of security short of a Fidelius.” One at a time, we stepped up for him to draw a curiously shaped silver knife across our hands and press our bloody palms to the door. “Now anyone not keyed in will be stuck outside the gate, unless you choose to let them in. I’ve fixed your Floo as well, so you can screen who comes through.”

Harry threw himself into work. I was worried that the Ministry would be the worst place for him to be. It turned out it was the safest option short of locking himself in a vault at Gringotts. None but the most ruthless journalists seemed willing to try to sneak into the Auror Department, and any who did found themselves repulsed by a clever warding. 

The evening of the first day, Harry came out of the Floo struggling with a glassy black object the size and shape of a shoebox.

“Careful,” he warned as I stepped forward to take it.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” I exclaimed, nearly dropping the box, which was evidently made of stone, or lined with lead. Or possibly both. “What on earth is this thing?”

I set it safely on the kitchen table with an effort, and Harry gave me a tired smile. “It’s got some fancy magical name, but at work we just call it a Trap,” he said, giving it a little pat. “ _We_ use it to make cursed or Dark items safe to handle, but basically it deactivates magical objects.” 

“Wow!” I peered at the Trap with renewed interest. “How did you get it?”

“Campester gave it to me.”

I boggled at him. “He just _gave_ it to you?”

“Loaned it to me,” Harry clarified. “It’s for the mail, until things quiet down a bit. When we get any more Howlers or letters from people we don’t know, put them straight in here and say ‘Exarmo’. The Trap sends a pulse through that’ll render them harmless. Much safer than trying to Banish them or throwing them on the fire.”

I whistled appreciatively, running my hand over the glossy surfaces, and lifting the dense lid to peer at its identically black and shiny interior. Then I thought of the rather stern and seemingly humourless demeanour of Harry’s boss. “How in Merlin’s name did you have the balls to ask for it?”

Harry’s face fell a little, and he looked sheepish. “Didn’t have to,” he admitted. “There were three Howlers in my inbox by the time I got to work, and they all went off at once when I sat down at my desk. Campester brought the Trap over when the next batch turned up, because no one could get any work done while they were being forced to listen to people screaming about how _unnatural_ I was in my affections.”

He gave me a bitter smile. “When I was leaving, he told me to take it home with me. Said the last thing he needed was for me to get cursed opening a letter from someone with nothing better to do than send some poor sod hate mail.”

“But won’t they need it?” I asked, still baffled at the no doubt highly expensive and potentially dangerous item sitting so innocently on our kitchen table.

Harry flapped a casual hand. “We’ve got about half a dozen in storage. Unless there’s a really big case on, we only ever seem to use one or two at a time.”

From then on, all unknown post went straight in the Trap. Howlers were reduced almost immediately to small piles of ash. Booby-trapped letters tended to disintegrate, the parchment turning dry and crumbly. An unspelled letter wouldn’t be unaffected, so long as the writer hadn’t used a magical ink.

“You can see why we still need Curse Breakers,” Harry commented, dusting out the interior of the Trap after yet another powdered missive. “It’s just too powerful for anything delicate like paper or fabric. And it’s no good if you want something to stay magical and just remove a curse, because it wipes _everything_.”

Wheezes was a very different matter to the Auror Department. I only lasted half an hour on the first day before the press of reporters, hecklers and nosy parkers got too much. Any genuine customers had escaped the chaos long before.

George said he was right to manage it on his own. “Without you here, they should all just piss off,” he said with a venomous glare behind him as he pushed me towards the fireplace. I didn’t think I should hold my breath, and I was proven right.

Halfway through the second day, Harry Floocalled to tell us that George had been arrested by the MLEs for getting into a brawl with a customer who got mouthy. Because of the circumstances, and the closeness to the anniversary of the Battle, Harry and Dad were able to get them to release George without charge, on the condition that he kept his head down. 

Mum fussed over George’s black eye and swollen face when Dad Side-Along Apparated him home. He was slightly dazed from the concussion, but he refused to elaborate on exactly what had been said to set him off.

“Bastard deserved it,” George mumbled through thick lips. “Nobody says _that_ about my baby brother. Or Harry. Nobody.”

The next day, George was firmly ordered to stay put at the Burrow, and Mum took over at Wheezes in the absence of both of us. She glared so ferociously at anyone who entered that shoplifting was nonexistent, half the potential customers left without buying anything, and those who did make a purchase were careful to pay in exact change, down to the very last Knut.

George and I were virtually under house arrest and at a bit of a loose end. We ended up playing a lot of chess, talking Quidditch, planning some new Wheezes, drinking far too much Firewhiskey before noon on the anniversary of the Battle, and making some very valiant attempts to cook dinner for everybody that didn’t turn out half bad. 

We also got twitchy, very bored, and had some rip-roaring arguments that on one occasion came to blows. There wasn’t much else to do, after all.

**********************************

It is around midday on the fifth day that a Barn Owl swoops in through the kitchen window. I stand up and untie the letter from its outstretched leg, and it takes flight without waiting for a reply.

“Oh, _bloody hell_ ,” George says irritably, tossing down his hand of Exploding Snap cards and scorching the tabletop. “Not _another_ one!”

I start peel up the seal immediately, and George blanches slightly pale. “The Trap!” he babbles hastily. “ _Use the Trap_ , for fuck’s sake!”

“It’s alright,” I reassure him, “I recognise the handwriting.”

Inside is a clipping from the _Daily Prophet_ and a short note.

_Thought you had most likely stopped your subscription, and might like to see the latest news._

_I love you both,_

_Hermione._

“I don’t believe it,” I mumble numbly, looking down at the article. “She bloody well did it! She’s a _fucking genius!_ ”

“Who did what?” asks George, completely confused.

Wordlessly, I hold out the piece of newspaper so that he can read the story.

  
[CLICK HERE if you can't see/read the article](http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mshadow/skeeter2.html)   


I am grinning so hard my face hurts. George reads through the piece of paper once…twice…then looks at me, his face blank and stunned.

I give him the note.

“ _She_ did this? _Hermione?!_ ” He seems entirely disbelieving.

I nod.

“But…but _how?_ ” 

I smirk. “Let’s just say that you and Fred weren’t the only ones doing a bit of blackmail the year of the Triwizard Tournament.”

A slow smile breaks across his careworn face, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “Bloody _brilliant!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood wards aren't my creation, as most of you who've read widely in fandom will know. For my wards I wasn't very original. I took inspiration mainly from mad_martha's wards for the Rose House in [Two Households](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8496) and aniwde's wards for Harry's house in [Translation of Light](http://aniwde.livejournal.com/tag/tol), so any appreciation of the wards should be directed to them and the umpteen others who have used blood wards in their fic before me.
> 
> The Trap, however, is wholly my idea.  
> EDIT: But in a quirk of fate, a week after I wrote this, I found out that solstice_muse had a artefact virtually identical to the Trap in one of her fics, but I couldn't have copied it, because I hadn't read the story before. Nothing new under the sun, indeed.


	32. Presumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too many people act or speak based on faulty or biased assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two POVs in this one - first Ron, then Harry. I hope that's clear enough.

With a new scandal to sink their teeth into, people seem to quickly lose interest in the fact that Harry and I are flagrantly queer for each other. In the space of less than a week, the flow of Howlers and vitriolic letters slow to a trickle. Harry takes The Trap back to work, along with a tin of Mum’s shortbread. (The presence of the latter makes Harry the most popular man in the Auror Department for the short space of time it takes the team of hardened professionals to demolish the treat like hungry schoolchildren.)

And of course, first George, then me, are back to working at Wheezes fulltime.

It is almost like nothing has happened. Business is good, and if we have the occasional rude customer, well, that’s just one of the joys of working in customer service. But every so often, something happens that is so jarring that it is impossible to ignore the fact that the world at large knows that I fancy blokes. 

Well, one particular bloke, anyway. 

Like the day I step out of the Floo to find George Scourgifying the shop front to remove a word I could decipher even with half the letters missing.

“Should have spelled this window to repel graffiti months ago,” George says casually, giving his wand one last little flick. “It used to be, I’m sure. The charms must have worn off.”

Or when parents hastily shepherd their children away when I approach them in Wheezes. That hurts. It doesn’t happen that often, really, but the first time it does, and I realise _why_ she’d dragged the boy out the door so quickly, I hide in the back room for a good ten minutes trying not to bawl my eyes out. 

Walking back out into the shop after that is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It must show on my face, because George doesn’t even harangue me for the time he’d had to work alone, as is our custom when one of us disappears for more than a few moments.

“All right, there, Ron?” he asks, almost gently.

“Fine,” I reply, attempting to sound relaxed.

“This order’s just come in, and it really needs processing before the end of the day,” he says, flapping his hand in the direction of a stack of crates near the door. “I’ll keep an eye on things out here, if you go through it.”

He is giving me an escape route and I am more grateful than I can possibly say, but before I can thank him he shoos me away, the crates levitating themselves after me.

I calm down before the first box is even sorted. I still feel horrible, but the mind-numbingly boring monotony of checking an inventory that’s in some weird hodgepodge of English and some Slavic language is soothing in a strange, indefinable way.

*******************

Friday night swings around again. The year is getting closer to half over every day, and Ginny will be coming home in two days, before taking off again a week later to travel round Ireland with Seamus.

“Finding a cheap room somewhere in Dublin to shag like bunnies, more like,” Ron sniggers. 

Everyone at the Burrow seems to be eating as though it’s their last meal. The table isn’t as full as it could have been, since Bill and Fleur are absent, but it’s still pleasantly crowded. Fleur is now so big that she doesn’t walk, she _waddles_ , and Flooing is too dangerous. Molly has just announced that she is leaving tomorrow to stay at Shell Cottage until after the baby is born, since Apolline Delacour is delayed in France, tending a sick relative.

“You’ll be _fine_ ,” Molly says, beaming at the assortment of glum faces. “Ron and George did _beautifully_ when I was running the shop.”

“Great,” Ron says mournfully. “Another two solid weeks of burnt bangers and lumpy mash.”

I pat his arm consolingly. “I’m on early rotation at work for the next month,” I reassure him. “I’ll cook.”

He gives me a pathetic, puppy-like look of eternal gratitude.

I’m cleaning up afterwards when Percy pulls Ron aside. Over the clatter of dirty dishes I catch the phrase “help you with your public relations problem”. I know it’s rude to eavesdrop, but I can’t help myself. They’re not speaking in hushed voices, and I’m not exactly lurking outside a closed door. I’m in the same room, only a handful of feet away.

Percy is looking self-satisfied and smug. Admittedly, that’s common for Percy, but this is his ‘I’ve got a fantastic solution’ variety of smugness. “- function at the Ministry in a weeks’ time,” he continues. “- couple of nice witches in my office...already asked them...more than happy to –”

“No.” Ron’s voice is hard and angry, and it cuts Percy off mid sentence.

“Oh, don’t be obstinate, Ronald,” Percy replies impatiently. “They don’t _expect_ anything. It’d just be for appearances’ sake. You understand, surely.”

“You’re bloody right I do,” Ron snaps. “You want me back in the closet.”

“What? _Closet?_ I don’t-” Percy begins, baffled by the Muggle expression.

“You want me to pretend I’m not with Harry. You want people to think that I’m _straight_ ,” Ron says with distaste.

“Don’t _you?_ ” Percy responds, clearly stunned that anyone would consider the alternative. “Now that that Skeeter woman has been discredited, a few public appearances here and there by yourself and Harry in the company of some eligible witches your own age and this whole thing could blow over.”

Ron is turning a deep shade of crimson and there is an atmosphere of tension in the room like the pressure of a rising storm. “What if I don’t _want_ it to blow over?” Ron’s voice is quiet, but menacing. “What if I don’t _care_ that people know we’re together?”

Percy has obviously missed the dangerous tone, because he gives a little derisive laugh. “This isn’t all about _you_ , Ronald. Think about _Harry_. He has a real chance at a good career, and it’d be pretty selfish of you to spoil that for him just because you don’t want to be... _discreet_ about it.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ this is all about _someone’s_ career!” Ron sneered, moving to stand very close to Percy. “What’s wrong? Does the Ministry not give promotions to the brothers of _faggots?_ ”

“Ron-” I say, moving towards the pair, but neither of them even spares me a glance.

Percy winces and reddens at Ron’s blunt aggression, but he seems frustrated now, too. “I am _trying_ to help you! This has nothing to do with my-”

Ron brushes aside Percy’s protest. “ _Everything_ has to do with what _you_ think is important! Career first, family second-”

Percy looks annoyed, even a touch hurt. “I have only ever tried to do what’s _best_ for this family-”

“Siding with Death Eaters and trolls like Umbridge?” Ron retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’d rather I was married to some stupid Pureblooded bint and _miserable_ than be with a man and _the happiest I’ve ever been_ because it’d make _you_ look better!” Ron’s voice is raised, and he is trembling with fury.

“That is _not_ true!” Percy protests hotly, but a telltale expression of guilt flashes briefly across his features.

“A huge embarrassment, that’s all I’ve _ever_ been to you!” Ron shouts.

“Ron, love-” I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

“Boys?” echoes Arthur’s voice from the sitting room. I can hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

“I’ll tell you what, Percy,” Ron says, now so close their noses are almost touching and his breath is creating little patches of fog on Percy’s glasses, “you take your _fabulous idea_ and shove it up your arse! You never know, you might just find out you _like_ having something up there.”

“What’s going on here?” Arthur asks sharply. He, Molly and George are clustered in the doorway.

“Nothing,” Ron mutters, shouldering roughly past Percy and out of the room. I follow in his wake, avoiding the faces of the worried Molly and Arthur and the avidly curious George. As I start to climb the stairs, I hear the sharp _crack_ of Percy Disapparating.

I walk slowly into our darkened bedroom and sit down beside Ron on the edge of his bed, my leg pressing against his, my arm slipping around his waist.

“Was he right?” Ron’s voice is small; his anger has given way to his self-doubt. “Is being with me going to stop you being an Auror?”

“No,” I say firmly. “Who you’re fucking doesn’t matter. All they really care about is that you fire your spells in the right direction and take orders. How else do you think _I_ got in?”

It’s not much of a joke, but it’s enough to make him crack a smile. “You might still be in trouble then, mate. You’re not too good at taking orders.”

I feign hurt. “I am _very_ good at taking orders.”

Ron just looks at me, his eyes mocking, an amused twist to his mouth.

“I _am!_ ” I insist. 

He snorts disbelievingly.

“I seem to remember you thought I was very good at it last night,” I say with a pout, hoping secretly that I look alluring and not petulant, letting my fingers slide lightly up his thigh. “You were all ‘right there, Harry!’ and ‘faster, yes!’ and ‘don’t stop, please!’.”

Ron licks his lips. “Harry?” he says a little roughly.

“Yes, Ron?”

“Shut up.”

I do. 

Then Ron leans in close to brush his lips against mine, and pretty soon we’re doing something far more interesting than talking.


	33. Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is clueless. Harry is clueless. Luckily (?) George and Ginny are there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I figured, too much Plot lately and not enough of the light relief. So this chapter's a bit of a timeout after the angstyness of the whole Skeeter debacle and Ron vs Percy.
> 
> The word 'nutsack' is in this story purely because Emma hates it, and I told her months ago I'd work it into a fic, just for her. ;)
> 
> Some of the storyline for this chapter may have been inspired by a certain poll on a certain person's journal a while back. You know you are.

“You really _are_ daft, aren’t you?” George’s pronouncement holds an element of wonder, as though he’s fascinated by the magnitude of my stupidity.

I finish locking the shop door and ask the question I know George wants me to ask. “What have I done now?” I sigh.

“Nothing,” he smirks. “That’s the point.”

I shake my head tiredly. “You’re not making any sense.”

“ _I_ am making _complete_ sense. _You’re_ the one who wouldn’t notice someone was making a pass at you unless they walked up and grabbed your nutsack.”

“ _What?!_ ” I try to think up coherent replies, but instead my brain is frantically searching for something that had happened during the day that could be construed as ‘a pass’. I come up blank. “Who?”

George has that smug bastard look on his face. “That last customer. The blonde one who looked like a Quidditch player.”

Blonde? Oh, yeah. Thinking hard about it, he had been blonde. “He was just being friendly. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“ _Friendly?_ ” George chortles. “Ron, nobody loiters round a shop for _over an hour_ then buys something small at the very last second before leaving unless they’re up to something. I nearly kicked him out for shoplifting before I saw what he was doing.”

I can feel my face starting to flush. “Maybe he just didn’t know what he wanted.”

“ ‘What does this one do, Mr Weasley?’ ‘How does that work, Mr Weasley?’ ” George repeats in a sing-song voice. “Never mind that it’s all right there on the packaging. I think he knew _exactly_ what he wanted.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“You _honestly_ didn’t notice?” George asks. I shake my head, feeling hideously embarrassed and, for some reason, guilty.

“And _I’m_ the one who’s single,” he says incredulously, as he begins counting the till.

*****************************

I am thoroughly engrossed in dinner preparations, so much so that I don’t hear someone enter the kitchen. Molly’s cookbook is open and I am muttering to myself as I measure out ingredients into the self-stirring mixing bowl when an amused voice comments, “You’re very _intense_ , you know. It’s just food.”

I jump and swear, dropping the cup. A fine dusting of flour settles on all the nearby surfaces, and I sneeze violently. “You’d better not say that near your brothers,” I splutter, “They’d think it was blasphemy.”

Ginny dismisses my warning with an unconcerned shrug. “I’ve seen some of the things they eat. They’re hardly on the moral high ground. Ron, for one, would probably put anything in his mouth if you told him he should.” 

Ginny puts slight emphasis on _you_ in that last sentence, but I don’t think anything of it. She is silent for a little while, but I’m hyperaware of her behind me, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table.

“So,” she says at last, “while we’re on the subject of _eating_ , do you mind me asking you a question? It’s for research purposes,” she adds.

She has that oh-so-casual tone in her voice the twins would get when they were sitting on something huge and feeling particularly smug about it. Knowing I’ll regret it, I brace myself and reply, trying to sound unconcerned, “Fire away, then.”

I still very nearly slice two fingers off when she asks, “Do you like giving head? Or do you just _pretend_ to like it for your partner’s sake?”

“ _Ginny!_ ” I squeak, mortified.

“Because, _personally_ , I love it,” she continues, swinging her legs a little, like a young child. “But some of the others don’t.”

“Others?” I ask, faintly.

“Yes, others,” she says, as if this conversation is normal and straightforward, not incredibly frightening. “The other girls from school.”

“Oh.”

“ _Hannah_ won’t do it at all,” Ginny elaborates. “So she’d better hold tight to Neville, because there’s plenty who’d get on their knees for him, and not all of them are girls. Luna said she doesn’t mind it, but that her mouth is too small to do anything but suck the head of Dean’s cock, so mostly she licks him and plays with his balls.”

My mind instantly generates an unwanted image of Luna kneeling in front of Dean, her lips wrapped around the tip of his thick, dark penis. As if from a distance I hear Ginny saying, “And Hermione, naturally, will suck but won’t swallow. Says it’s _unhygienic_.” Ginny emphasised her contempt by rolling her eyes dramatically.

The half-chopped vegetables lie forgotten, and the uncooked pastry is drying out through my neglect. “You got _Hermione_ to talk about giving blowjobs?” I ask, disbelievingly.

“Well, she _did_ get very drunk at that party and Terry had to go to the loo at some point. I just waited till he left her on her own.”

“You’re evil,” I say with an air of mild horror.

“Thank you,” Ginny replies, as though I just complemented her. “And _I_ love going down on Shay because it drives him wild. He swears a blue streak in Irish when he’s close to coming, and afterwards, he’ll do anything I want,” she concludes, smugly.

I struggle, unsuccessfully, to banish the picture of Seamus lying on his back, sweating and cursing, with Ginny’s red hair falling in a curtain around his crotch.

“So I decided you were an ideal person to ask, since you’re a guy,” she says with satisfaction at her well-thought-out plan. “And you know what it’s like to give head _and_ receive it.”

“Um…Ron’s _never_ …I mean…” I stammer, even as a whole set of new images forms in my mind, these ones liable to make me have to dash upstairs for a quick wank before dinner.

Ginny looks shocked. “That selfish _bastard!_ ” she spits.

“No, no,” I backpedal, realising the conclusion she’s drawn. “I haven’t either.”

She looks totally unconvinced. “You’ve been together for months,” she says slowly. “You’re honestly telling me you’ve _never_ given each other a blowjob?” 

My face glowing like the sun, I mumble something that Ginny correctly interprets as “no”.

“Well, then,” she purrs. “How about I give you a few pointers?”

I know that it’s futile to refuse. She’ll tell me anyway. So I nod, and Ginny smiles like a predator with a mouth full of sharp teeth. She hops down from her perch and starts helping me chop carrots with intimidating efficiency.

“Now then…” she begins.

The hour that follows is one of the most horrifically embarrassing and informative of my life to date.


	34. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinnertime at the Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so wrong to have a chapter with the title 'Domesticity' and NO MOLLY WEASLEY. But that's the way it happened, and really, I can't think of a better name for it, all things considered.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who responded when I asked on my private journal about British pies. I eagerly absorbed all your input...and then promptly dropped all but a cursory mention of the pie in question. Sorry about that. I did appreciate your help.

The kitchen at the Burrow is silent save for the sounds of enthusiastic mastication and the occasional swear word when Ron shoves a mouthful in before it has cooled sufficiently. It appears my attempt at Molly’s famous chicken and vegetable pie has been a success.

“So good,” George mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Marvellous,” murmurs Arthur. 

Ron grunts his agreement, and reaches for the serving spoon to refill his empty plate.

“Pig,” mutters Ginny. There is the solid thud of a booted toe connecting with a shin, and she yelps.

“Children,” Arthur begins in a warning tone.

“Acciden’,” says Ron around a large chunk of potato. “S’ry Gin.”

Ginny scowls murderously.

“And you’re telling me, Harry,” Arthur says, ignoring his offspring, “that you made this whole meal _without magic?_ ” His expression borders on adoration. It’s a bit unnerving.

“It’s not that hard, really,” I protest.

“Even the gravy?”

“Well, yes.”

“Incredible!” he rhapsodises. “Molly won’t let me near her gravy. I _offer_ , of course, but whenever I try, it goes lumpy.”

“You’ve got to keep stirring it,” I explain, my face hot. “If you stop, it thickens.”

“Muggles _stir_ gravy?” Arthur says, his eyebrows shooting up high above the frames of his spectacles. “Goodness me, how extraordinary! Well, I suppose without a Tempero Charm they’d have to do it that way. Ingenious!” He shakes his head, a happy smile on his face, and takes another bite.

Ginny rolls her eyes at me across the table, and George sniggers into his plate, before looking up and asking, “So, what did you get up to today, Harry? Apart from creating culinary delights without the aid of a wand, that is.”

His tone is light and conversational, just enough so that I hesitate, but his eyes are innocent of anything except polite curiosity.

I respond, mainly because George’s old mischievous spark has been re-emerging more of late, and if me being the butt of a joke helps him, well, I’m willing to wear a bit of egg on my face. “Paperwork. Got thrown around by Muscoli, who gave me a nice set of bruises on my backside to match the ones from yesterday on my ribs. Then paperwork. Obligatory seminar on Magical Law after lunch. Then I was attacked by my own mail. More paperwork. Then home.”

An assortment of snorts and giggles break out around the table.

“You were attacked by a _letter?_ ” Ginny asks. “You mean like a Howler?”

“Not a letter,” I clarify. “A package. It got through the checks at the Mailroom somehow. Probably because it didn’t contain any curses.”

“What was in it?” asks George enthusiastically, clearly more fascinated by the mayhem aspect than concerned for my wellbeing.

“A King Cobra,” I say with a small smile, popping a chunk of carrot into my mouth.

George’s eyebrows disappear behind his fringe. Arthur murmurs, “My word!” Ginny looks alarmed.

“It only bit me once,” I add casually, and immediately regret it when I glance sideways and see Ron looking very pale and more than a little sick. “I’m fine. They had me dosed with an Antidote and back at my desk in half an hour,” I say gently, “and if Campester doubted me last year when I said I couldn’t speak Parseltongue anymore, I think he believes me now.”

“What did you do?” Ron asks in a tight voice, clearly trying to relax and not lose his temper over me getting injured at work...again.

“According to the others, I stood there and told it firmly and disapprovingly to get back in the box and stay there, like it was a naughty kid out of bed after lights out. Of course, I was speaking in English, so not only did it not understand me, but it didn’t particularly like being shouted at by some human.” I rub at my wrist absently, and Ron tugs it over to look at the partly-Healed puncture marks, tracing them gently with a fingertip. “It was just there, and was out of the box so fast, I didn’t remember I can’t talk to snakes anymore. It struck, and Trott hit it with a Freezing Charm.”

“Why not a Body Bind?” asks George, his brow furrowed. I’m reminded strongly for a moment of Hermione, and I just know that my answer will be carefully filed for future reference in George’s clever brain.

“Doesn’t work on snakes,” I explain. “They’re too closely related to Basilisks. And Stunning just tends to piss them off. Freezing’s your best bet, because they’re cold-blooded. Sends them straight to sleep.”

“What’s being done? About the snake, that is?” Arthur asks. He’d been so quiet I’d almost forgotten he was there. His face is lined and serious.

“Well, the box and packaging we hung on to, just in case we’re able to trace the sender. We called someone from the Beast Division of Magical Creatures to come and get the snake.”

“I thought you said it _wasn’t_ magical!” cries Ginny.

“Wasn’t _cursed_. It wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near the Department if it had been. But it wasn’t a regular old cobra either. It was striped in green and silver and had twin Dark Marks on the hood. Fancy bit of wand work, if not illegal experimental breeding.”

“Most likely done with a mix of Charms and Transfiguration. It’d be virtually impossible to breed for that kind of cosmetic detail,” Arthur says, before explaining, “I’ve worked with the team from Illegal Breeding a lot. The people we deal with tend to tamper with both objects and animals.”

“The guy from Beasts said if whoever did it was sloppy, or they’ve got prior, they _may_ be able to point us in the right direction.” I shake my head and spear another piece of meat. Ron hasn’t let go of my other wrist, but I don’t pull away; I just readjust so that his fingers interlace with mine, and give his hand a comforting little squeeze.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Arthur says with a sigh.

“I’m not,” I assure him with a slightly cynical smile. “So, George! Tell me about your day,” I say overly-brightly, in an effort to steer the conversation into happier waters.

George grins wickedly, and I know that I’ve said exactly what he wanted from the beginning. 

“Not bad, Harry, not bad at all!” he chirps cheerfully. “Of course, mine was nothing as good as _Ronnie’s_.”

I look at Ron for an explanation, but he’s staring hard at his plate, sullen and embarrassed, his ears bright red. “Shut up,” he mumbles.

“Oh, didn’t he tell you about his conquest?” George asks innocently. “Ronnie was _quite_ the popular lad today.”

I nudge Ron gently with my elbow. “What’s this, then?”

“It’s nothing. Just some guy hanging about, talking to me,” Ron says, his face a brilliant scarlet.

“Wanted to do more than _talk_ , from the looks of things,” pronounces George, smugly. “I had to follow him about performing Drying Charms on the floor so the other customers didn’t slip in the drool.”

“Oh, _really?_ ” I say, arching an eyebrow but keeping my voice light and amused. “Am I going to have to keep a bell on you, so you don’t wander?” I add in an undertone to Ron, tracing a slow spiral with the tip of my thumb on his palm, under the table. He jumps a little at the teasing touch. Ginny obviously overhears my provocative comment, because she coughs and spits a little pumpkin juice back into her mug.

“Your turn to do the dishes tonight, I think, George,” Arthur says with a trace of amusement.

George’s face becomes crestfallen. “But I don’t even live here anymore!”

“You _eat_ here,” Arthur reminds him, his lips twitching. “Ron cleaned up last night, and Ginny helped Harry.”

“What about _you?_ ” George argues, in something close to a whine.

“ _I_ am Household Management,” Arthur says with a very satisfied expression.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” George asks, looking baffled.

“It means,” Arthur says, with a smile just as wicked as George’s was earlier, “that I get to delegate.”

George sighs and begins Levitating the dirty plates into neat stacks.


	35. Experimentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to *my* 'Ginnys' - hpuckle, oncelikeshari, lnalvgd, auntbijou, aunt_agatha, shocolate, massielita and redsnake05 for your advice and support!

Just what was Harry playing at? Everybody was _right there_.

I should have been furious. I _tried_ to be furious…but instead, I bit back a whimper and stared down at the table when Harry let go of my hand and gave my upper thigh a gentle squeeze. 

He’d been stroking my palm since dinner ended. We were halfway through dessert, and the aching bulge in my pants was becoming harder and harder...to ignore. I couldn’t eat a bite after Harry’s hand gently rested on my leg, though. And when he ever so lightly trailed a fingertip down the seam on the crotch of my jeans, I felt myself twitch in response and bit my lip hard enough to leave indentations. 

All the while, Harry was talking to my Dad and joking with my brother, and Ginny kept shooting glances – smirking, even – across the table at me.

Damn her.

I am just frustrated enough to be considering fondling Harry, when he yawns expansively.

“Got to be at work early tomorrow,” he announces, standing and stretching. “I’m for bed. Night, all.” Then he casually strolls from the kitchen, leaving me stuck sitting at the dinner table with a Problem.

The bastard.

As carefully and quickly as I can, I stand and turn away in one fluid motion, muttering, “g’night” as I flee.

Ginny’s snicker chases me from the room.

***

The moment Ron – flushed, frustrated, fuming – barges through our bedroom door, I pounce. I kick the door closed with my heel and kiss him breathless. When I finally pull back, I can tell he’s forgotten he was marching up here to shout at me. 

More kisses, wet and clumsy. I grab handfuls of Ron’s t-shirt, urge him backwards a few steps, and give him a gentle push. He flops back across the bed and lies there like a great ginger Tom in a pool of sunlight, looking up at me, eyes heavy-lidded with lust.

I give a few well-practiced flicks with my wand, before setting it on the bedside table. Then I strip my clothes off and climb up over Ron on hands and knees to taste him deep, again.

“You’re mine, tonight,” I murmur, littering his neck with nips and kisses.

“’m yours every night,” he counters, but I can hear his breath quicken in anticipation.

“Gonna make you moan,” I promise, pinching his nipple sharply enough through his t-shirt to make him hiss.

I had planned to tease him more, but I can feel my own impatience building, and with it, my nervousness. I need to touch him, taste him, and I don’t want to get too anxious to do what I plan to.

I sit up, straddling his hips, and tug at his t-shirt. Together we wrestle it off him, and I eagerly explore this new plateau of skin. He tastes warm and salty, and also ever so faintly of sulphur, which is an unavoidable consequence of working at Wheezes. I lick and suck and nibble his nipples mercilessly, until they stand proud and firm on his chest. My hand is busy rubbing him lightly through his trousers, and his skin has a dewy coating of sweat. 

When I lean in to kiss him, he devours my mouth hungrily. I pull back, just enough that he has to lift his head off the pillow to reach my lips again. When he catches me, Ron thrusts his tongue into my mouth roughly. I suck on it, giving him a gentle squeeze, and he moans against my mouth.

“So beautiful,” I murmur.

Feather-light kisses now, trailing down his neck, his chest, detouring to nibble again on those perky buds. I shuffle backwards to reach his stomach, moving further down, down, down, until I’m kissing heated denim. I straighten up again and fumble with his fly. It opens eventually, exposing tented cotton, and with a quick grin at Ron’s dizzy expression I duck down and nuzzle his covered erection. He whimpers as I press my face against him. The fabric is damp and smells like sex and sweat, and Ron’s cock is clearly defined. I plant kisses up the length of it slowly. I can feel him tense underneath me; hear him swearing under his breath. The kiss on the head of his cock is open mouthed. I gently close my lips over it, sucking lightly for just a moment. Ron groans loudly, his hips giving a little thrust. 

“Too many clothes,” I say, sitting up, and I move to one side while Ron frantically removes his shoes, socks, jeans and boxers in record time. When he lies back down again, I nudge his legs apart and settle myself between them. 

Ron’s cock is hot and heavy in my hand, and I rub my cheek against it like a cat. Right at that moment, our eyes meet. He’s propped himself up on his elbows to watch me, and he’s panting already. His eyes are inky pools, the pupils dilated fully, reducing the startling sapphire blue of his irises to a narrow band. He looks disbelieving, frightened, and incredibly turned on. 

I know that in a few seconds, despite his arousal, he’s going to come to his senses and feel guilty. He’ll insist I don’t have to, that he doesn’t expect it, that if I’m not ready, that’s fine. And right now, as I teeter on the thin line between bravado and outright panic, I know I’d most likely grab on to the “out” with relief, and kick myself for my cowardice later.

So, I don’t give him the chance.

Holding his gaze, I open my mouth and run the tip of my tongue slowly up from glans to tip. He sucks in a sharp breath. Encouraged, I close my lips over the head and swirl my tongue.

“Oh _fuck!_ ” Ron gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

To be honest, as informative as Ginny was, most of the basics I’d kind of already worked out for myself. I knew what felt good when Ron or myself was touching my cock, so it wasn’t _that_ big a leap of the imagination to work out what would feel good if done with lips and mouth and tongue. Still, planning and thinking were quite different to actually _doing_.

As hard as I try to keep my teeth covered, I feel them scrape when I take him in further and he flinches. I release him, murmuring apologies and planting kisses on the abused flesh.

“’s okay,” Ron mumbles a little drunkenly, his hand caressing my head, fingers weaving in my hair. “Don’t stop.”

Obediently, I try again, but this time I take too much and gag. I feel a twinge of embarrassment, but when Ron makes a soft needy sound it does remind me of something Ginny mentioned. Careful not to choke myself, I slowly bend my head until he’s _just_ nudging the back of my throat, and swallow. Ron lets out a little cry, and I can feel the sudden tension in his thighs as he resists the urge to thrust. Excellent.

I try out a few different things, gauging their effectiveness on his reactions. Running my tongue, broad and flat, up the underside of his cock makes it twitch delightfully and the breath catch in his throat. Sucking on the head while my hand moves up and down makes him grip the headboard tightly and moan. When I tickle the glans with the tip of my tongue, his eyes roll back in his head and he mutters some of the most obscene profanities I’ve ever heard.

After only a few minutes with Ron’s cock in my mouth, my jaw is aching and I need a break. Hoping that he’s not disappointed, I let my hand take over and move down lower to lick his balls. Judging by the way he spreads his legs wide and pushes down gently on the back of my head after only a few moments, he doesn’t mind one bit. I take one bollock in my mouth, suck softly and swirl my tongue, and he _keens_. Hearing him makes me moan, and the vibration of the sound causes him to grip my hair almost painfully tightly.

“Ohhh... _fuck...Harry..._ ” Ron pants urgently.

I can feel his pulse throbbing beneath my fingertips and his cock is slick with pre-come. I slow my hand down to a torturous pace. Ron whimpers in protest, but he’s too close, and I don’t want him to come, not yet.

Raising my head, I say quietly, “I want to try something...to see if you like it. Do you trust me?”

Ron swallows hard and nods without opening his eyes. He’s thrusting a little into my loose grip, and his breathing is shallow and uneven.

Wriggling around a little, I manoeuvre my knees forward until I can take some of my weight off my left elbow. Heart tapping in my chest, I get him to slide his feet towards his body, and then suck on one of my fingers until it’s coated with spit. 

“Ready?” I whisper hoarsely.

“Yes,” he gasps.

When my wet fingertip brushes across him, he releases a long, shuddering sigh. I can feel the delicate, wrinkled flesh quivering beneath my touch.

“All right?” I ask.

“Mmmhmmm.”

I stroke, circle and caress, all the while moving my right hand slowly over his cock.

After a minute or so, I say, “I’m going to try inside, okay?” and he nods, his bottom lip held firmly between his teeth.

I quickly rub the pad of my thumb over the end of my finger, checking to ensure my nail isn’t sharp, then press the tip of my finger to his entrance and push gently. I feel him clench, and my finger stays very much on the outside. I rub around his hole a little, until I feel him loosen, then try again. This time it goes in a bit, but he yelps with pain, and I can feel my finger drying out. Evidently, saliva is _not_ going to work. Not only is it not slick enough, but I really don’t want to think about the hygiene issues involved if I have to lick my finger every ten seconds.

“Hold on a moment...” I say, giving Ron’s thigh a quick kiss, before climbing off and rummaging in the bedside table. The massage oil is much slicker, and it won’t dry out.

My newly lubricated finger is much more successful at relaxing Ron, and in under a minute I make another attempt. This time, after an initial clench at the intrusion, the ring of muscle relaxes and I slide the digit fully in.

“Okay?” I ask.

“Uh huh.”

“Doesn’t hurt?”

“Nuh...’s different...but good...I think.”

Taking that as encouragement, I slide the finger out a little, and then back in, then out a little further, then in. The fourth time my finger slips in, Ron’s eyes fly open wide and he groans, “ _Fuckyesthere!_ ”

Crooking my finger a tiny amount, I rub the tip in a small spiral. Ron’s whole body quivers in response and he makes a high-pitched sound almost as if he’s in pain.

_Thank you, Ginny._

I duck down and take Ron in my mouth again, sucking firmly and massaging with my tongue, all the while fingering him slowly, trying to hit that spot inside him as much as I can. He’s swearing in a constant stream now, massaging the back of my head, bucking his hips just a little. His breath is escalating, rough and ragged, and soon the words he’s saying dissolve into whining with a desperate edge. I know he’s right on the brink.

As close to in concert as I can manage, I brush that place inside of him, rub my thumb against the sensitive skin of his perineum and suck as hard as I can.

Ron roars, and his cock pulses, filling my mouth with salty bittersweet, which I swallow more from surprise than from adherence to Ginny’s Rules of Blowjob Etiquette. I keep sucking, working his cock with my right hand, wringing out that last gasp, that final jolt, to leave him limp and sated, smiling weakly and tugging me up to kiss him.

“Y’re amazing,” he mumbles. “’m gonna flirt at work ev’ry day.”

“Don’t you dare!” I growl warningly, reaching over to grab my wand and clean us both up.

When I settle back, he reaches down, wraps a large hand around my aching cock and lightly strokes me, and it’s bliss.

“How’d you know? About all that stuff, I mean?” he asks casually, while he scrambles my brain.

“You don’t want to know, trust me,” I reply. His hand stops and loosens, and I make a plaintive sound. I try to thrust, and he lets go altogether. “ _Rooooon..._ ” I whine.

He just gives me a teasing smile and strokes one fingertip lightly over the head of my cock before opening his mouth in a little yawn. “Mmmm...I’m awfully sleepy. Night, Harry...” he says, closing his eyes.

“You’ll be scarred for life,” I promise him.

“Don’t care,” he counters, without opening his eyes. “’fess up.”

“Ginny,” I mutter, resentfully.

His eyes fly open. “I thought you said –”

“She didn’t do it _to me!_ I almost wish she _had_ , it would have been far less traumatic! She cornered me in the kitchen earlier and gave me a lecture worthy of Hermione. I’m just grateful she didn’t have diagrams!”

I can feel my eager erection wilting as I speak. Ron has covered his face with his hands and is groaning. And not in a good way; in an I-am-scarred-for-life kind of way.

“ _My sister_ taught you how to give me the best blowjob I’ve ever had?” he asks incredulously.

Unrepentantly, I continue. “She said if you finally got one, it’d make you less of a prude and...” I trail off. “What do you mean, _the best?_ ”

Ron makes some noise that sounds very much like, “waznmyfirst”.

“ _Who?_ ” I demand, my voice steel and ice. “Hermione?”

Hermione I could live with, but Ron shakes his head. “Lavender,” he confesses miserably. “But she was rubbish at it.”

Images I never, ever wanted form in my brain, and my struggling erection gives up altogether.

“But you came, right?” I ask, sulkily.

“Of course I came!” Ron protests. “I was sixteen, and she had my cock in her mouth!”

I am aware that I am acting in a very childish and girly manner, but I really wasn’t expecting our post-blowjob conversation to involve past girlfriends and their prowess at giving head. In fact, I wasn’t really expecting a conversation at all. I was more hoping he’d just tell me how fabulous I was and give me a stunning orgasm. Ron has dropped his hands from his face, and he’s watching me, cocking his head a little.

“You’re jealous,” he declares, disconcertingly astute for once.

“Am not,” I pout.

“Are too,” he says with certainty. “You’re jealous that somebody else sucked my cock.”

I open my mouth to insist that he’s wrong, even though he isn’t, but he leans over and kisses me deeply, those long, clever fingers of his stroking me and rekindling my arousal, and all I can do is moan. 

“Let me,” Ron murmurs against my lips.

I force down my nerves, my jealousy and everything else but my love for the man beside me.

“Please,” I gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remember, kids.
> 
> As lovely and slick as it is, NEVER use oil or oil based lubricant with condoms. Make sure the product is water-based, and that you use plenty of it. And do use a condom for oral sex, and glove or a condom over your fingers for digital penetration. We Muggles don't have the convenience of cleaning or protective charms, and you're not only protecting yourself, you're protecting and respecting your partner and all the future partners the two of you may have.
> 
> Have fun, and play safe!


	36. Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Harry are woken at an ungodly hour.

There is the rumbling of hurried footsteps on the stairs, then an insistent pounding on the door. I feel a surge of irritation. Even without being awake enough to open my eyes, I _know_ it is far too long until dawn for pounding.

Well, _that_ kind of pounding, anyway.

I feel Harry stirring, rubbing his cheek firmly into my chest, as though he hopes burrowing closer will stop The Noise. I tighten my arm around him. They’d go away. Eventually.

Or not. The ruckus outside the door culminates in a loud obscenity and an unlocking charm. The light that floods in causes me to scrunch up my face in discomfort.

“Oh, yuck! Ron, put it away!” someone says with disgust.

Harry lifts his head from my chest to squint short-sightedly at the intruder. A moment later, he scrabbles, slightly frantically, for something to cover himself. I simply turn over to face the wall, giving Ginny a prize-winning view of my naked arse. “Fuck off,” I mumble, annoyed. “Who asked you to barge in, in the middle of the fucking night?”

She tuts, but doesn’t retaliate. “You have to get up,” she insists. “Fleur’s in labour.”

I swivel my head to look at her. Her face is earnest. “Oh. Shit. Really?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, _really_. Mum Flooed in ten minutes ago before heading back. Dad’s already left to meet Fleur’s parents at the International Portkey Office.”

Harry is dressing as modestly as he can manage in a room with one-too-many little sisters and no privacy. Ginny is glancing at him too much for my liking, and I feel like growling at her.

“Well, what d’you need us for, then? These things take hours, right?” I snap.

“It’s already been going for hours, Ron!” Ginny says, flinching as I roll over to sit on the edge of the bed and reach for my jeans. And if I’m now blocking most of Harry from her view, well, that’s just a happy coincidence. “Mum didn’t bother waking us earlier, just in case it was another false alarm. We have to let people know, because Mum’s helping the midwitch and Dad doesn’t know if he and the Delacours will get back in time, even though he did pull some strings to get them pushed to the head of the queue.”

“Who needs to be told?” Harry asks, pulling on his t-shirt from yesterday, his hair delightfully rumpled.

“George and Percy. Everybody else can wait until after. And I bags George,” she adds hastily, just as I open my mouth.

“No fair!” I protest. She smirks. “Fine! I’ll owl him,” I mutter, reaching for a quill.

“With _that_ air-headed pigeon?” she says, pointing at Pig, who fluffs up his feathers and hoots happily at her.

“Pig wouldn’t get to London in time,” Harry points out gently.

I sigh heavily in resignation.

“Oh, and Dad said to bring them back here. Bill and Fleur’s is too small for a dozen people just hanging around,” Ginny says over her shoulder as she turns to clatter down the stairs.

“C’mon then,” Harry says, not unkindly, passing me my shoes. “We’d best get it over with. You can put up with being civil to Percy for one night.”

“I will if he is,” I growl, knotting my shoelaces rather tighter than usual.

“You will be anyway,” Harry says a little coolly. “For Bill and Fleur’s sake. This isn’t about you.”

I flush red, and meet his eyes, shamefaced. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” I apologise.

Harry gives me a tense smile then swiftly kisses my cheek. I make the effort to smile back, before standing and pulling him to his feet.

***

Percy’s flat is quiet and dark when we Floo in, which is no surprise, given the lateness of the hour. The first impression I have, through the gloom, is of neatness. White walls, straight lines, and heavy, dark wood furniture. Ron mutters a Charm, and the lamps around the room flicker into life.

Two full bookshelves with a desk between them dominate one wall; the books in neat rows, the papers on the polished surface laid out in careful stacks. A slightly battered but elegant couch upholstered in bottle green leather sits at right angles to the fireplace. Photo frames are arranged in precisely spaced intervals along the mantel. Some are of Percy proudly shaking hands with various important people at the Ministry; Scrimgeour, Fudge and Barty Crouch Sr are amongst them. Others are of family. I see what is clearly all the Weasley children in one; Bill looking maybe thirteen with Ginny, only an infant, cuddled in his lap. Ten year old Charlie is proudly holding what could either be a hedgehog or a Knarl (but knowing Charlie, is probably the latter) and the four year old twins are pulling each other’s hair and cruelly pinching exposed flesh in what seems to be an attempt to make each other cry. Percy looks about six. His glasses are too big for him and keep sliding down his nose. He’s trying to keep a grip on a struggling toddler – Ron – who obviously wants to run away and seems on the verge of a tantrum.

The brightly coloured hand-woven rug on the floor looks gaudy and over-bright. There are pillows on the couch to match. I easily recognise Molly Weasley’s touch, burning like a flame in this reserved, ordered little room that fits Percy’s regulation-loving personality to a tee. 

Hermes glares at us from his perch next to the open window.

“We’re allowed to be here,” I whisper. 

That the Floo was keyed to permit us in unchallenged is obviously not enough for him. He clicks his beak and ruffles his feathers, as though he disapproves.

“This way,” Ron murmurs, leading me through a small kitchen to a closed door on the other side of the flat. He’s just raising his hand to turn the knob, when something catches my eye that causes me to stop him.

“Maybe you should knock,” I say softly.

“Why?” Ron asks, with the unconcern of someone who has grown up living elbow to elbow with a whole horde of other people and no privacy.

“Well...it is his house,” I say, uncomfortably. Ron had obviously missed what stood out to me like a sore thumb in this shrine to order. Two dinner plates, unwashed, still on the table. Two wineglasses and an empty bottle on the countertop.

Ron shrugs and taps gently with a knuckle on the door. “Perce? Wake up. It’s Ron.”

I hear sounds of movement, a low murmur.

“You awake?” Ron calls through the door.

“Yeah,” comes a muffled answer. “Don’t come in...just hold on a minute...”

The door cracks open a few inches, and Percy peers out myopically. His russet hair is comically rumpled, and he is hastily tying his dressing gown shut. “What’s wrong?” he asks, squinting, his forehead furrowed with worry.

“Fleur’s in labour,” Ron says tersely. “Are you coming?”

Percy blinks. “Er...ah...yes, of course.” He glances over his shoulder swiftly. “How about I meet you there? I...I need to dress...and things...” He runs a hand through his hair nervously, but rather than flattening it, it sticks up more alarmingly.

“Sure,” Ron agrees, clearly glad to be leaving. “Come to the Burrow. They don’t want us cluttering up Shell Cottage.”

“Fine,” Percy gabbles. “I’ll be five...er...ten minutes.” And shuts the door firmly in our faces.

“Rude git,” Ron mutters, before stalking back to the Floo.


	37. Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys await the birth of their newest family member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows directly on from Acquiescence.

Fifteen minutes later, Percy Floos into the kitchen of the Burrow; clean, tidy, hair neatly combed. 

It’s a nervous little party. The five of us aren’t talking much, and when a conversation starts, it quickly descends into brittle silence.

To quell my nerves, I make tea. And apparently, to quell _their_ nerves, the other four drink it. Automatically, when a cup is emptied, I fill it. Mechanically, they sip, and the cycle repeats.

I’m putting the kettle back on the hob for the fourth time when Ron gently takes it from my hand and sets it aside. “Enough,” he says, pulling me in close for a hug. “No more tea. I’ve had to run to the loo three times already.”

I stand in his arms as he rocks me a little, allowing my eyes to sink shut and my limbs to relax.

“Sun’s coming up,” George comments, peering out the window.

“I should owl work,” I mumble into Ron’s shoulder. “Even if it does happen before I’m due in, I’m so tired I’m liable to hex my own toes off if I go in today.”

“Write a note and give it to me,” suggests George. “I’ve got to go back and stick a sign on the front door of the shop anyway. I forgot all about it. It isn’t going to take me much longer to duck into Reception at the Ministry.”

“It’ll be easier if I do it,” offers Percy. “I have to let them know myself, and I’d imagine Dad hasn't told anyone yet either, apart from the fellows at the Portkey Office. Write out a sign for the shop and I’ll Floo to your flat. Then I can Apparate to the Ministry and notify for all three of us at once. They’ll be more likely to listen to me, as well,” he adds. “I know you’re family, George, but if you take a note in, it’s liable to go missing. If I pull rank, they’ll have no choice but to send the memos while I’m watching.” 

Usually, any mentions of position or influence inspire Percy’s most pompous tone, but his sentences are matter of fact and his expression seems genuine. That, and the overall stress of the situation, is probably the reason George just nods and says “thanks” with a look of mild surprise before wandering off to find some parchment rather than making a joke.

“Do you need me to write a note?” I ask, my head still pillowed on Ron’s shoulder.

“Er...no,” Percy says, glancing quickly from my face to Ron’s and back again. I think about stepping back, but Ron’s arms tighten around me a little. Percy clears his throat, nervously, before continuing. “We’re all calling in at once, and for a legitimate reason. I think everyone in the Ministry knew Fleur was due around now; Dad’s been getting twitchier with every passing month. You’d think he was the first man in the world to become a grandfather,” he concludes with a small, wry smile.

George re-enters the kitchen, flapping about his hastily made sign to dry the ink. “Just press it to the door and use a sticking charm, but make sure you give the password to the Anti-Graffiti Ward first or the paper’ll end up somewhere uncomfortable instead.”

“Without lube,” Ron chimes in, wickedly.

Ginny snorts into her teacup, despite the fact that she appears so overtired that she looks ready to drop it.

“Right,” Percy says, blushing, as he rolls the sign into a neat tube. “I’ll be back in half an hour at the longest. If you’re not here when I come back, I’ll go straight on to Shell Cottage.”

When Percy steps into the Floo, his ears and neck are still flaming crimson.

***

As it happened, it was another two hours before an exhausted Arthur Flooed in to the kitchen to summon us, by which time we had long since moved into the living room. Ginny was fast asleep on the couch with her head in the lap of George, who was nodding off. Percy, pale from lack of sleep, nevertheless seemed wired and jittery, fidgeting and pacing. I was in an armchair with Ron sitting on the floor, leaning back against my knees, semi-conscious. I was carding his hair, absently.

“A girl,” Arthur said, swaying slightly.

We piled into the Floo, one by one, to tumble out into Shell Cottage and fill it close to bursting point. 

Then, more waiting. Small knots of people went in and out, until finally, Ron and I were shepherded towards the door.

“Shh...” Bill says from a chair, finger against his lips, barely making a sound. “She’s asleep,” he mouths, pointing at Fleur, in the bed beside him. His eyes are deeply shadowed, and his face is so lined and haggard with exhaustion and worry he would look just like he did at the end of the War, were it not for the glowing smile he can’t repress. There is a small wrapped bundle in his arms.

Ron walks softly over to kneel at Bill’s side, his expression a mixture of excitement, surprise and joy as he peers down at his niece. I hover in the doorway.

“Ron’s good with kids,” someone says softly beside me. 

A quick glance, and I realise it’s Percy. “Yeah, he is,” I reply, watching as Ron gingerly cradles the baby against himself, murmuring soft endearments. Bill supervises, looking down at his daughter’s face with a fierce blend of love and possessiveness.

“I’ve got no idea with them,” he says, ruefully.

“Me either,” I commiserate. “I pick up Teddy, and I’m always worried I’m hurting him or I’m going to drop him. But Ron...he just looks so _natural_ doing it all.”

There is a short silence as we watch Ron and Bill counting impossibly tiny fingers and toes.

“Your friend...did he get home okay?” I finally ask, glancing at Percy as I say it.

Percy bleaches bone white. “What makes you think-” he begins in a ferocious, hushed tone.

“They teach us observational skills pretty early on,” I reply. “Two plates, two wineglasses, no lipstick on the rim of either of the glasses.” Percy licks his lips nervously. “Some witches still spell their lips, but it tends to cause irritation if done regularly, so most women under the age of sixty use lipstick these days. The Wonder Witch range has one that’s Charmed to match the colour of the witch’s robes that I understand sells very well.” Though I keep my tone light, Percy’s face flushes to a deep, dull red. “It doesn’t matter, you know,” I continue. “So you like guys. Big deal.”

“You have to understand, I’m not _gay_ ,” Percy stresses rather urgently. “I like _women_. Nine times out of ten, if I bring someone home, they’re female. Sometimes I need something different, that’s all. And working in politics makes that...dangerous.” He looks down at his toes. “The men...They’re Muggles; they’re _always_ Muggles. I don’t ask their last names, and they don’t ask mine. I keep my real life and...that...separate. It’s nobody’s business,” he finishes, looking up at me defiantly, reminding me more than a little of Ginny for a fraction of a second.

I nod.

“I suppose Ron knows,” Percy says, resignedly. 

I shake my head. “I only knew you had someone there because of the dishes, and I don’t think he noticed.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Not my secret to tell,” I say honestly, shaking my head again.

Percy breathes out slowly, and his relief is palpable. “Thank you for your discretion,” he says, almost formally, but I can hear the true gratitude beneath the stiffness of the words.

“I think he’d listen if you did decide to tell him,” I add. “But that’s up to you.”

“Maybe,” Percy says, uncertainly, watching Ron carefully returning Victoire to her proud father’s arms. “Maybe one day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of my readers are probably wondering now about ‘gay but in denial’ Percy, and how I’m going to go about getting him admitting his ‘true’ orientation and ‘out’. To put it bluntly – I’m not. There are, of course, gay men who live ‘closeted’ their entire lives who behave in a very similar way, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.
> 
> Sexuality covers a broad range. It isn’t like a switch with three settings; straight, bi and gay. Most people fall somewhere in between these labels and only use one of those terms for convenience. Percy was being completely honest with Harry when he described his sexuality. He’s what we referred to while I was volunteering at the AIDS Council of NSW as a ‘man who has sex with men’; a rather vague but nonetheless factual term. 
> 
> It’s probably impossible to accurately calculate the amount of men in the population who identify as heterosexual but have consensual homosexual sex of some description at least once in their lives. (However, it’s obviously not that uncommon because we had a brochure available at ACON to give out to women who knew or suspected their partner also slept with men.) For some it’s a one-off, for others it’s a regular occurrence. Many of these men have wives and families, and reaching them with safe sex information is particularly difficult for health care workers because they don’t identify with campaigns targeting gay men. Most of these men don’t confide in anybody besides their partners and maybe a very trusted friend or family member about their sexuality, because they don’t want to be labelled as gay. Not necessarily because they’re homophobic, but because they’re NOT gay. They’re simply part of the spectrum of human sexuality; more ‘straight’ than ‘bisexual’ and more ‘gay’ than ‘straight’.


	38. Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron decide it's time for an upgrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Mrs Quizzical!
> 
> You said you'd be happy with domestic, so domestic Ron/Harry fluffy sorta smut it is. And it's a Teapot moment! Aren't you special. ;)

“Got it?”

“Yep…a bit more…”

“Oh, _shit_. That’s going to leave a mark.”

“Never mind that. We’ll fix it later. Mum’ll never know.”

Harry snorts.

“Well, she’ll be able to tell that we _tried_ to fix it,” I amend. “That’ll count for something.”

“I think my end’s stuck,” Harry says with some alarm. “It won’t turn any further.”

“Try lifting it a bit higher.”

“I _can’t_. The ceiling’s too low; I’ll put a hole in it.”

I mutter something about fixing _that_ , too, and though I can’t see his face, I can almost _hear_ Harry raise an eyebrow, as if to say, “Oh, _really?_ ” in a way that is eerily reminiscent of Remus Lupin.

“Bugger this,” I finally say in frustration. “I don’t care if it weakens the joints, we can just put it back together if it falls apart. That’s what Permanent Sticking Charms are for.” I lean one corner on the banister, reach into my pocket with my freed hand and pull out my wand. “ _Reducio_.”

The unwieldy piece of furniture shrinks by a whole third, and we manipulate it easily into my bedroom, before I restore it to its former size. I flop down onto the bare mattress, ignoring the alarmingly loud creaks from the frame, and beam up at Harry in triumph. “Admit it. I’m a genius.”

“You’re impatient,” he says, trying to look annoyed and somehow managing to look fond in a way that makes my heart beat a little faster. I hook a leg behind his, urging him a little closer to the bed, and he climbs up and straddles me. His kisses are languid, addictive. I could kiss Harry like that all day, forever. I could easily urge him with lips and tongue and touch to shut the door, undress and writhe with me on our new, second hand purchase, but I don’t want to break the spell. I simply hold him in place, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other moulded to the curve of his waist, drinking him in, drowning in him.

At length, he breaks the kiss to lie down on my chest, his cheek against my shoulder. The bed complains at the shifting of weight.

“We really need to strengthen this before we sleep on it,” he mumbles lazily, “or anything else.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say cheekily.

“You should,” Harry mutters. “You’re the one who complained it was too difficult shagging on a single bed in the first place.”

“ _Sleeping_ ,” I correct him. “The shagging we can manage. It’s the sleeping together afterwards that’s awkward.”

Harry just hums in agreement, nestling in a little closer.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” I ask, after a period of silence. “Sleeping together, I mean.”

“Sure,” Harry says quickly. _Too quickly?_ “We’re sharing a bed most nights anyway. This way, I might actually go a whole night without getting jabbed by an elbow, or waking up to find you’ve stolen my pillow and drooled all over it.”

I poke him in the ribs and he squirms, unintentionally rubbing against my quiescent cock in a very pleasant way.

“C’mere,” I murmur, urging him up until I can reach to kiss him deeply.

He wriggles again, deliberately, and the bed and I groan in unison.

“This isn’t going to work,” I gasp.

“Sure it will,” Harry replies, rocking his pelvis again, his green eyes bright. “You just have to lie _very_ still.”

I try to protest, but all that comes out is a rather pitiful incomprehensible sound, and I realise that I’ve relaxed completely beneath him, even my arms flopping down limp on the bed at my sides. He’s got me at his mercy, and he knows it.

“Good boy,” Harry murmurs, reaching down to unzip us both.


	39. Disintegration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron knows when things started going wrong.

Making love on the creaky, unstable bed with the bedroom door wide open was the most erotic experience of my life to date. I was completely and utterly under Harry’s power. I had to be still and silent save for soft gasps of air, or he would stop and wait for me to regain control. It was maddening, infuriating and addictive. 

When I was close, I virtually stopped breathing altogether, save for a little _in-out_ now and then that was barely audible. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel the urge to moan and pant, and the slight whirl of dizziness as my body cried out for more oxygen. There was a flash of pink tongue as Harry licked his lips, his hand moving over our cocks in a blur. 

I came, and it was one of the most intense, all-encompassing orgasms of my life; pulsing right out to my fingers and toes. No sound passed my lips beyond a shuddering exhalation of breath once the initial wave of pleasure had crested and broken over me, but the bed wobbled ominously as my back arched high off the mattress. Harry didn’t slow or stop, thank Merlin, because he was too far gone himself for teasing. Moments later, he bit his lip, choked back a cry, and his come joined my own on my stomach. We cleaned up, giggling and blushing, exchanging kisses and light touches, and lay side by side on the rickety bed for half an hour, dozing, before Mum called us down to dinner. 

That day, I loved that bed more than anything I’d ever bought or received as a gift in my whole life.

Less than a month later, I was convinced it was the reason Harry and I were on the verge of breaking up.

***

“I’m telling you, Ron, if you don’t stop slamming those down on the shelf, I’m going to hex you,” George snaps, looking up from counting the till.

I slap the last box down, hard, and glare at him defiantly.

A trace of a smile tickles George’s lips, but his voice is anything but amused. “Are you starting with me, mate? Because you’re going the right way to getting yourself cursed six ways to Sunday.”

“That’d be right, hiding behind your bloody wand. You’ve gone soft if you ask me,” I sneer.

For a moment, George behaves as though he hasn’t heard my blatant goad. He finishes counting the stack of Galleons in front of him, writes a number neatly in the ledger, scoops the money into a leather pouch and locks it away. Then he walks around the counter to stand right in front of me, his hands at his sides, loosely curled.

“You want to say that again? To my face?” he asks softly, his features expressionless.

“I said, you’re a limp-pricked bastard, scared of his own fucking shadow,” I enunciate slowly and carefully.

I feel a dizzy rush, close to euphoria, when his fist smashes into my jaw and pain floods through me. I dive at him, swinging wild punches, missing more often than not, but landing some solid hits. He’s giving as good as he’s getting; probably better. One of us loses our footing and we go down together. I hear the rumble of a shelf falling, dumping stock on the floor, the tinkle of something breaking. 

At one point I sink my teeth into the flesh of his neck and he howls, punching me hard in the kidneys in retaliation. I suck in a sharp breath, and the ragged exhale that follows is almost a laugh. There’s something real about the pain, and I relish the blows he lands on me almost more than those I throw at him. This brutal language is one I understand.

Minutes later, the fury has passed, and I’m lying, curled on my side, spitting out blood onto the boards between gulping air.

“Lose any teeth?” George asks, conversationally. He’s winded, too, but he sounds remarkably calm.

I feel around my mouth with my tongue. My lip is split, and there are some jagged holes in the inside of my cheek where I bit it, but apart from that, everything seems intact. I shake my head.

“Good. Feel better?”

I shrug. “Sort of. Not really.”

George sighs. “It’s a start. Come on.” He stands, and pulls me to my feet. His arm around my shoulder is guiding me out the back, towards the stairs that lead to his flat.

“But... but what about...?” I gesture vaguely back towards the scene of destruction that was once our orderly and well-presented shop.

George flaps an unconcerned hand. “We can fix that in the morning. We have more important things to do.”

“Like what?” I ask. As we begin to climb the stairs, it’s obvious that he’s limping a little. A vague memory surfaces; me grinding his foot mercilessly beneath the heel of my boot.

“Well, firstly, I am going to get you drunk on some particularly nasty and cheap alcohol,” George says with some satisfaction. “And then, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on between you and Harry.”

***

“You think buying a piece of furniture jinxed your relationship?” George asks, as if he wants to be absolutely certain that’s what I meant.

I nod, take another mouthful of the harsh Muggle vodka and try not to grimace. George hadn’t been joking about the “cheap and nasty” part, but it is doing its job very effectively. My jaw and ribs still throb insistently, but I am disconnected from the pain now. 

George had kindly offered to heal my lip before we started drinking. Initially, I refused, but when the first sip of alcohol made me yelp and brought tears to my eyes, I let him. He didn’t offer to fix anything else, though. Maybe he understands that right now, I _need_ to hurt. 

Or maybe he just thinks it’s only fair that I remain a bit bruised up after picking a fight with him and trashing the shop.

“Er...why?” George asks, his brow slightly furrowed.

“’Cos everything’s been buggered up since then,” I answer. “’Cept for the buggering bit. We haven’t done that yet.” I absently note the half-wistful, half-annoyed tone of my own voice, and the fleeting wince that flickers across my brother’s face before he takes another swallow of his own drink.

“D’you think it’s cursed, or something?” George asks.

“It’s not that I’ve been pressuring him or anything. I haven’t even _asked_ ,” I lament, staring down morosely into my empty glass. 

George takes it upon himself to pour both of us a hefty refill.

“I mean, it’s not like I expect to bugger _him_ , or anything, but I wouldn’t mind it if _he_ -”

“ _So_ , the bed,” George cuts in, his voice slightly pained.

“Everything’s gone wrong since we bought it. After the first few days, I mean, ‘cos they were pretty incredible.”

“What’s gone wrong? _Besides_ no buggery,” George adds, hastily.

I slump further in my chair. “He’s not around at all, and when he is, we hardly talk. It’s like he doesn’t want to be near me; like he can’t stand to be in the same room.”

“Are you sure you’re not just reading too much into things and beating yourself up a bit?” George asks gently. “Hasn’t he been working a lot, lately?”

“He’s _always_ working,” I complain. “He doesn’t do anything _but_ work. He gets up an hour before I do, and he comes home well after tea and falls straight into bed.”

“Maybe he’s just stressed,” George suggests. “Have you talked to him? Asked him what’s wrong?”

“Loads of times. He keeps saying he’s fine, every time. Last time I asked he got really angry at me, shouted at me, told me to stop bloody well hassling him.” I take a deep shaky breath. “Whenever I reach for him, he’s got some excuse. The last few times I’ve kissed him, he’s pulled away, glared at me, and told me he’s too tired. I wasn’t even trying to start anything.” I down the last half of my glass of vodka in one swallow, then stare at the floor for a long moment. 

“I don’t remember the last time he made me tea, or smiled at me like he meant it. Like he loved me.” I look up, and George is watching me, his eyes soft and sad with sympathy behind the bruises.

“He’s going to leave me, Georgie,” I whisper.

Saying the words out loud makes it real. Real like my aching ribs, like the cuts inside my mouth from my brother’s fist.

George holds me close and murmurs nonsense to me while I sob on his shoulder.


	40. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knows when things began to slip out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You saw Ron's side in the last chapter. This is Harry's.

On a June afternoon, with sun streaming through the open windows and sounds echoing up from the floors below through the open door, I straddled Ron on our new bed and watched him come undone. I teased him slowly, winding him tighter, bringing him closer and closer to the edge with touches and kisses. His skin flushed a deep crimson with arousal and the effort to keep silent, and his face contorted in what looked like pain. His breath escaped him in erratic short pants, and his eyes…

…his eyes looked deep inside my soul. 

There wasn’t just lust there, or friendship, or love, but all three at once, and an emotion of indescribable intensity for which I knew no name. I knew then that he’d do just about anything for me, that his devotion was absolute. 

It terrified me. I wasn’t worthy of it.

The few days that followed passed in a haze of flirtatiousness and sex, and though it was easy to fall into his arms, I closed my eyes when he got close to coming, afraid of what I’d see. That look in Ron’s eyes kept me awake at night, tossing and turning, even while he snored beside me, oblivious to my distress and confusion.

I drifted through work, possibly only training and reflexes saving me from a serious mistake or injury, and when Campester informed me that my Proficiency Tests would be taking place over the next two weeks, I tried to look unsurprised that almost a year had passed since I’d started with the Aurors.

“I know what you’re capable of, Potter,” Campester told me, “so you know what I expect from you. We both know that there are a lot of people out there who say you’re only here because you’re friends with the Minister. And that not only insults you, but it’s an insult to me, and my Department. Do your best and prove them wrong. Aim for the bare minimum, and you can find yourself another career. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. 

I decided immediately not to tell Ron about the Tests. I usually didn’t mind Ron’s caring concern, his gentle understanding, his accommodation to my fluctuations in mood, but in the wake of that afternoon on the bed, the idea of it was… smothering.

Separation was best, I decided. Work would stay at work, home at home, and everything would be fine, I told myself. Just fine.

When I set my quill back down to the report I was partway through, my hand trembled enough to make my ordinarily messy handwriting illegible.

***

The day my results are due arrives. I haven’t slept. I lie in bed and doze, ever so briefly, before waking up suddenly at three o’clock, just _knowing_ that I am going to oversleep, so I slip from the bed and pad downstairs to drink multiple cups of tea. I know there is Firewhiskey in the sideboard, but I refuse to give into the temptation even though it might help me relax.

Once the sun rises, I go back up to the bedroom. I have no choice; my robes are there. My fingers fumble with the fastenings, lint seems to have attached itself to the fabric overnight in vast quantities, and the seams just won’t sit straight.

“’re you all right?” Ron asks, sleepily, from the bed.

“Fine,” I answer automatically. “Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t. He sits up and watches me; his bright hair rumpled, his cheek grooved and creased from the pillow.

“I woke up earlier. You weren’t here,” he says. 

“Went to the toilet,” I reply, tying my shoes a little more aggressively than strictly necessary.

“Did you sleep at all?” Ron asks quietly.

“I slept fine,” I say, irritably.

Ron’s watching me, and I can feel him laying me open, seeing through my pathetic lies. “I know I’m rubbish at feelings and stuff, but…” he begins.

“You’re right, you _are_ rubbish,” I snap, and his flinch wounds me.

Still, he’s watching me. He’s staggering, but undaunted. “Maybe if you tell me what’s wrong, I can help,” he offers tentatively. He’s so _caring_ and _concerned_ and _patient_ , and his eyes on me are full of love and hope, and I can’t bear it. 

“Would you just _stop bloody well hassling me?_ ” I shout, unmindful of the other members of the house.

Guilt and hurt immediately war for dominance on Ron’s face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Only a few short months ago, Ron would have got angry at me, shouted back, maybe even shoved me hard, and told me what a git I was being. Now he just lies there in that bloody bed, looking almost on the verge of tears. My simmering self-loathing consumes me.

“I’m going to work,” I mutter, stalking from the room.

Before I head into the Auror Department, I make a detour to the wizards’ bathroom and throw up the half a dozen cups of tea I drank and the small amount of dinner I’d managed to force down the night before. I know I’m early in to the office, but as much as I’d like to sit there with my head resting against the porcelain and listen to the toilet’s soothing reassurances, I can’t linger. I find a String-Mint and pop it in my mouth, hoping that it’s enough to cover the sour smells of bile and tannin on my breath. 

There’s mail in my in-tray, and I open the envelopes one at a time, slowly, reading the contents but absorbing nothing, before moving onto paperwork. A cup of tea appears on my desk at precisely eight o’clock. I gulp half of it in one mouthful, and it scalds my tongue numb.

At eight-fifteen, Campester calls me into his office. I sit opposite him at his instruction and make a diligent effort not to jiggle my leg or wipe my damp palms on my robes. For a long moment, he just studies me, as though he’s trying to assess my mood or read my thoughts without actually performing a spell. I know he could slide into my mind effortlessly, and for some reason the knowledge that he could but won’t is comforting.

“Your marks were excellent, Potter,” he says without preamble. “Well done.”

I go to release the breath I’d held, but something in Campester’s face arrests me before I do. 

“There’s nothing in your performance that’s a problem,” Campester continues. “ _This_ is, however.” He taps the tip of a blunt forefinger on a thin sheaf of parchment in front of him. “It’s the report from Healer Pondera.”

Every Auror had a scheduled annual session with a Mind Healer. Most ended up seeing Healer Pondera or one of her associates at least a couple of times a year, as a minimum of one session was compulsory if an Auror or Trainee was involved in a serious incident or an arrest gone wrong. 

I’d already seen her three times this year, after my “accident” in Occlumency Training. She was middle aged, she dressed in tweed and served me tea just the way I liked it. If she’d had an unfortunate toad-like resemblance or a fondness for kitten plates, I might not have spoken to her at all, but luckily she was more like a much milder version of Molly Weasley; friendly and grandmotherly without being too smothering or nervous. I’d had several sessions with her, in which we chatted about nothing too in-depth, and I left them feeling a little better, if for no other reason than I’d found someone whose appreciation of tea matched my own.

My yearly session had seemed like more of the same. We’d talked about Teddy and she’d shown me a new picture of her grandson, she’d politely asked my about my pastimes and my relationship, and I’d smiled and told her the answers I thought she’d want to hear, even though I hadn’t flown my broom in months, and Ron watched me with sad eyes when I pulled away from his touch and retreated to my own side of the bed.

“She said that your sense of self-preservation is practically nil. That in a high pressure situation, you’d sacrifice yourself for the sake of others rather than thinking about how to get the _whole_ team to safety.” 

I open my mouth to say something, though I don’t have any clue what. Campester holds up his hand, and I shut it instantly.

“The Auror Department doesn’t need heroes, Potter. It needs living, breathing, trained professionals who know that nine times out of ten, your _brain_ is the weapon you need, not your wand, and that if you use the first one, you more than likely won’t need to use the second. We don’t want spell-happy risk takers, but we don’t need suicidal fools either. Get a handle on it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

“She also says that you’re obsessed with your job, and if you keep up at the current pace you’ll burn yourself out in six months at the most, though looking at you right now, I think she’s being generous. I’d hazard a guess at three.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” I say, my voice oddly thick and unsteady.

“When was the last time you _did_ sleep well?” he asks me bluntly.

I can’t remember, so I just shrug.

“That’s what I thought,” Campester says, picking up the pages, tapping them on the desk to straighten them, and tucking them away in a folder. “Two weeks paid leave, starting immediately, and half-days only, _within regular office hours_ , when you return. Nothing more until she clears you for fulltime work.”

“But… I…” I stammer.

“Healer’s orders, Potter,” Campester reminds me. 

As he shows me out of his office, he hands me an envelope with Pondera’s handwriting on it.

“Take it to the Apothecary attached to St Mungo’s,” he tells me. “There’ll be no charge; this tells them what you need, and to bill the Department.” He claps me on the shoulder and grips it gently for a moment before leaving me alone.

I leave the Ministry, Apparating to St Mungo’s in a daze to pick up the potion Pondera has prescribed me. The busy nurse makes me take the first dose in front of her, in case of side effects, and when nothing adverse occurs within ten minutes, she gives me several bottles of the stuff and bundles me into the Floo. I don’t protest; I’m too sluggish and mellowed out to even think of it until I’m halfway to the Burrow. I mumble some kind of reason for being home to Molly, and she shoos me up to bed. 

I lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, not sleeping, just allowing the slight dizziness to wash over me and listening to my breath woosh in and out. I wait, placid and patient as the hours tick by, for the moment Ron will walk through the door and I can blurt out how sorry I am and how much I’ve fucked up my life.

That night, Ron doesn’t come home.


	41. Yearning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not with a bang, but a whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could tell you what the insult means, but that'd spoil the fun, wouldn't it? Google is your friend, curious people.

_ Two hearts fading, like a flower.   
And all this waiting, for the power.   
For some answer, to this fire.   
Sinking slowly. The water’s higher.   
Desire _

_ With no secrets. No obsession.   
This time I'm speeding with no direction.   
Without a reason. What is this fire?   
Burning slowly. My one and only.   
Desire  _

_You know me. You don't mind waiting.  
You just can't show me, but God I'm praying,   
That you'll find me, and that you'll see me,   
And that you’ll run and never tire.  
Desire  
 **Desire - Ryan Adams**_

***

I groan in abject misery as I slowly wake. The very act of breathing hurts, but as I discover, the pressure created by holding my breath makes the pain far worse. A deafening rumble of a voice echoes throughout the room, and I hiss sharply as the approaching thunderous footsteps threaten to shake my brain free of my skull. Rough hands seize me, manipulate me into a half-upright position, and pull open my mouth. A liquid of indescribable foulness coats my tongue. I struggle to escape and spit it out, but the hands have clamped my jaw shut and pinched my nose, and I have no choice but to swallow.

“Atta boy,” my assailant soothes. My face is released, and I cough and choke as a hand pats my back in a not-unkind manner.

“Bastard,” I gasp.

“Had to get it into you before you started puking,” George says reasonably. “And you wouldn’t have trusted me if I’d just offered it to you. It’s one of my own brews.”

“You’re bloody right I wouldn’t’ve,” I agree.

“How are you feeling, though?” George asks.

“Better,” I admit grudgingly.

“It’s much more effective than that commercial shit,” George says happily. “Once I figure out how to counteract the side-effects, I’m going to patent it.”

“ _Side-effects?_ ” I squeak, my voice at least an octave above its normal range.

George bursts out laughing, and I know he’s japed me. I scowl.

“Drink this,” he says, pushing a glass of clear liquid into my hand.

“What is it?” I ask, eying the fluid suspiciously.

“ _Water_ ,” he says, clearly and firmly. “I’m not going to poison you, never fear. I need you up and on your feet. You’re coming downstairs with me in ten minutes, no later. My shop looks like a pack of Nifflers rampaged through it, and you’re going to fix it in time for opening.”

I moan, and drop back on the couch, slopping a little water on myself in the process.

“You want a butty for breakfast?” George calls from the tiny kitchen. “I’ve got some leftover bacon, and you can eat it while you work.”

“I never want to eat again,” I whimper.

“Tough,” says George unsympathetically. “Eat, or I’m going to lay into you with my boots when you pass out in the middle of the afternoon rush.”

I drink my water. I eat my (admittedly delicious) bacon sandwich while I right shelves and clean away broken glass and spilled potions. I give the floor one final sweep before flipping the sign and unlocking the door to the street. I fix a smile on my face and greet the customers politely, although George’s potion hasn’t erased the misery that drove me to drink myself insensate in the first place, and I’d much rather still be curled up on his lumpy sofa, refusing to talk to anyone. Any time I start to brood, something comes up that distracts me from it. Every time I wind up in the back room, sorting stock or looking for something, I find George taking over from me, pushing me back out into the shop determinedly.

The longest, hardest day of my working life draws to an end, and I hesitate at closing time, fretting about where to go, what to do.

“George… um… would you mind if I…?” I begin.

“No way, little bro. Lee’s coming round tonight and we’re going out to the Leaky. No children allowed,” George says, locking away the takings.

“But I just wanted to sleep -” I attempt again.

“Not a chance,” George says firmly, cutting me off. “Hiding here’s not going to fix anything, and I’m not running a shelter. If by some strange chance I pull tonight, I don’t want to have to explain the sad drunken lout snoring away on the couch. If you don’t have the balls to go home, fork out a few Galleons for a room somewhere.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “But…”

“Go on. You know where the Floo is,” says George, nodding in the correct direction.

I swear at him profusely, finishing with an Arabic phrase I’m not even certain of the meaning of that I once heard Bill use when I accidentally slammed a door on his thumb. “ _Waj ab zibik!_ ” I spit, panting heavily as my diatribe comes to an end.

“That’s harsh,” George says, though he seems completely unbothered. “I _do_ use a Protective Charm, though. I’m not completely daft. Weren’t you leaving?”

I stomp through to the Floo, knowing there’s no way I can sway him. He’s not even bothering to rise to the bait, and he does have the handy advantage of being able to dock my pay if I annoy him too much. He didn’t charge me for the destroyed stock from last night’s brawl, and I don’t really want to push it.

The Burrow smells delicious. Mum’s obviously spent half the day baking, again. Her hair is escaping from its neat bun, and there are smudges of flour dotting her face and clothes.

“Ron!” she exclaims, before bundling me into a hug. She smells good; like cinnamon and butter and milk, and I hold onto her for longer than I usually do, just breathing her in. She doesn’t question it, just rocks me a little, and when we pull apart, she cups my face in her hands and clicks her tongue.

“I’m fine, Mum,” I say, cutting off any worried fussing.

“You’re a bit peaky,” she insists.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“George works you too hard,” she tuts. “He Floo Called last night to say you were reorganising the shop, and not to expect you, and wouldn’t hear a word about you doing it another time.”

My anger at George dissipates a little, and I stifle a grin. “It’s okay, Mum, it needed doing.”

“Hmm,” she says, sounding unconvinced, and gives my cheek a final pat with dusty fingers. “If you’re going upstairs, would you ask Harry if he’s going to be down for dinner? Only if he’s awake, mind. Let him sleep otherwise.”

“Harry’s here?” I ask, my heart sinking.

“Didn’t George tell you? He has been since early yesterday, poor love. I think Evan must have sent him home. He didn’t look very well when he Flooed in, and he’s been in bed ever since. I let him sleep through, last night, but he’ll likely be hungry by now. He didn’t eat much when I took him up some lunch.”

“Oh.” The single, meaningless word falls from my lips like a stone. “Right. Yes. I’ll ask.”

Making the decision to climb the stairs seems ridiculously difficult, but I force myself, and then I’m there, opening the door softly, sidling into the bedroom, starting to undress. 

Harry is sprawled out across the bed, breathing heavily and slowly, almost snoring. It immediately strikes me how uncharacteristic it is of him, even though until now, I didn’t realise I’d noted so precisely how Harry slept. Usually, he curled in on himself, and only the shallow rise and fall of the covers gave away that he was breathing at all. His robes from yesterday lie in a heap on the floor, and it’s all wrong; I couldn’t count the amount of times I’ve laughed at him for hanging them so precisely at the end of every shift.

I’m so busy watching him, picking out everything that doesn’t fit in this scene, that the boot I’m wrestling off slips through my fingers and falls to the floor with a heavy thud. He doesn’t so much as stir. That’s when my confusion turns to alarm. Harry is by nature a light sleeper.

I move close, and am reaching out a hand to shake him, when I see something I don’t recognise on the bedside table; several somethings. Short bottles of thick-blown glass. 

Glancing quickly at Harry to make sure he’s still sleeping soundly, I pick up the nearest, the only one with a broken seal and a few doses-worth gone. There’s an unornamented paper label on it inscribed with the supplier’s name – _St Mungo’s Apothecary_ – and the directions for use – _One spoonful three times daily with food. Additional doses may be taken if symptoms are severe, not exceeding a total of five in one day. Avoid eating pumpkin and playing Exploding Snap while taking this Potion._

The cork comes out easily with a soft pop that makes Harry mumble unintelligibly and snuggle a little deeper into his pillow. I sniff, and immediately recognise mint, something lemony, valerian, and half a dozen other ingredients all intended to soothe, to tranquilise, to ease sleep and relax muscles. 

Calming Draught. And from the smell of it, a strong one.

“Oh, Harry,” I murmur.

I shed my robes and slide between the sheets. I’m not ready for sleep, but I want to be near him, close to him, while he’s not trying to push me away. Lying side by side like this is bittersweet. Part of me wants him to wake and smile that brilliant smile of his, the one that makes his eyes shine and sparkle, and kiss me breathless as though the last three weeks never existed. Another part wishes that he’ll sleep forever, if it means I’ll never again hear the anger and spite that lately has taken the place of affection in his voice when he speaks to me.

Most of all, what I feel is hope, and pain, and jealousy. Hope that things will improve, pain that things got so bad to begin with, and jealousy... 

...jealousy that Harry _finally_ must have talked to somebody about what was wrong, and that person, whoever they were, wasn’t me.

Harry whimpers suddenly, his face contorting, his limbs twitching, and I reach out without thinking, placing a firm hand on his arm, murmuring soft words. The tension drains from him slowly. At last, he releases a gentle sigh, the sound almost a word, almost my name, and one of his hands moves up to cover mine and hold it before his breathing becomes deep and regular again.

Somehow, it’s enough.


	42. Disorientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry awakens.

I wake uncharacteristically slowly. Generally, lately, I jolt into consciousness, instantly alert, checking for danger before I take another breath. This isn’t like that at all. It’s as though I’m swimming up to the surface of a deep, warm pool of water. The mattress and bedding cocoon me, and I know that I’m lying in the circle of someone’s arms. It’s nice, and it feels safe. The familiar panic is far away, barely noticeable. I sigh, and snuggle in closer, and I hear a gentle murmur, feel a light kiss on my brow. My cheek is pressed against a firm chest, and my half-hard cock is nudging against a muscled thigh. I rock my hips slowly, allowing my arousal to build, the sensation to wash over me.

“Oh,” someone gasps, their voice shocked and pleased and full of wanting. It might be my voice, it might be his. I’m not certain, and in this warm, half-awake place, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that friction, and nuzzling blindly up to meet his lips with my own.

The kisses are light, but there’s an air of desperation about them.

 _It’s been too long_ , I think, even though I’m not sure what I mean, myself.

I’m rubbing against him faster, now. He doesn’t try to pull me in close, or tilt his pelvis so that our cocks align, even though I’m sure he’s hard too. He just lets his hand drift down to rest on my hip, caressing it lightly as I thrust.

The kisses disintegrate when I get close, as I pant and moan softly. He’s gasping, and his hand on my hip twitches now and then, as though he’s struggling not to cling to me. I slide a hand under his waistband and trail a finger down his crack, feather-light, and he shivers all over.

“ _Shit_ ,” he swears, and his cheek is damp against mine. “Oh _fuck_.”

His thigh presses a little firmer against me, and it’s the last straw. I come hard, crying out and trembling in his arms, and it’s only when he keeps stroking my back afterwards and repeating soothing phrases over and over, that I realise the wet on my face isn’t sweat at all, but tears that won’t stop.

I open my eyes for the first time, and meet his worried, almost frightened gaze. I’m fully awake, now, trying to catch my breath between hiccups. I seem to have lost that wonderful control I had. It went wrong, somewhere, turned against me like an animal, and now there’s nothing left of it. I turn to face away from him, unable to stand the look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, not exactly certain what I’m apologising for. There’s so much I want to take back, undo, unsay. I wonder when kindness from people around me began to hurt, rather than comfort.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Ron answers softly, misunderstanding. “You just didn’t... You haven’t wanted to... Did I do the wrong thing? Should I not have... um...?”

I can hear the guilt and self-doubt in his voice, and I suddenly realise he thinks he’s taken advantage of me, despite the fact that I started it, and that Ron himself probably didn’t get anything but frustration out of the encounter. The idea is so ludicrous, I actually laugh.

“No,” I wheeze between chuckles. “Nothing wrong.”

I wriggle back until I’m pressed against him, and, encouraged, he winds his arm around me. To my surprise, I can feel that he’s not hard after all, though I imagine he was not long ago, before I scared him.

“Mum wanted to know, a while ago, if you’d be down for dinner,” Ron asks, his breath puffing across the back of my neck.

I think for a moment, and decide that I actually am hungry, and that I can probably manage to sit at the table downstairs and eat. 

“Yeah,” I say, “Yeah, I think I will.” I shift a little, and grimace at the sensation. “I have to change my pants, first, though.”

The distaste must be evident in my voice, because I feel Ron relax a little behind me, and hear him snigger at my state of disarray.

“Shut up,” I grouch, without venom. I really do feel quite slimy and disgusting, but it’s hard to get up the motivation to move when things feel a little bit _right_ for the first time in forever.

“We shouldn’t be too long,” Ron warns. “I came up here ages ago. Dinner’s probably just about ready, by now, and Mum’s going to come looking for us, otherwise.”

I make a grumbling noise of complaint and burrow deeper into the pillow, before stretching out my limbs and making the effort to sit up. The pants come off, immediately, and I try and wipe myself down a bit with them, but it’s no use. My pubic hair is all gluey; nothing short of a shower will fix it and there’s no time. I pull on jeans and a t-shirt that’s been worn to softness. It isn’t one of Dudley’s, but one of Ron’s, and he probably got it from one of his older brothers, years ago.

Ron is rebuttoning his shirt as I hesitate, hand outstretched, beside the bed. Though I can see the need for it, I can’t help but feel that the potion signifies my failure. I don’t realise how long I’ve been stuck there, hovering in indecision and misery, until Ron appears at my side and slips his hand into mine.

“I’ve got a Chocolate Frog somewhere, if it tastes bad,” he offers.

“It doesn’t,” I respond.

“Go on, then,” Ron urges, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

I uncork the bottle and take a tiny, measured mouthful. I’m aware of Ron taking the bottle from me and carefully resetting it on the bedside table as the room whirls around me for a couple of seconds.

“You all right?” Ron asks. He’s got an arm around me, steadying me. I lean my heavy head back against his shoulder, and take a deep, slow breath.

“Mmmm,” I hum. “Fine. Jus’ a bit, you know. Spinny. Goes away, in a bit.”

“Right,” Ron says, sounding a bit uncertain. “I’m going to help you down the stairs, all right?”

“All right,” I agree placidly, happy to lean in close to Ron as the stairs twist and turn back on themselves beneath my feet, following the delicious scent of Molly’s cooking to its source.


	43. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a long road ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Science geeks on my list, I know % v/v would probably have been more accurate given what we're talking about, but the mass : volume ratio was much easier to explain without taking up half a page, and so on.
> 
> Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.

Harry makes it through dinner, even if he is a little out of it. He doesn’t move to dish himself out some food, so I make him up a plate.

“No pumpkin,” he says, mainly to himself, even though there’s none in the serving dishes.

“No pumpkin,” I agree. “See?”

He peers at the plate for a long moment, as though cataloguing each separate foodstuff, before nodding, picking up his fork and beginning to eat. I catch Mum watching him sharply when I serve myself, and am careful to keep my eyes fixed on my food for the next five minutes or so. I’m still not entirely sure Mum isn’t a secret Legilimens. 

Dad is telling some long, convoluted story about something that happened at work involving a Departmental mix up of memos, and though Harry smiles and nods at the right times, he seems to keep forgetting about his meal, although a discreet nudge from me is effective at reminding him.

By the time the pudding is dished out, he’s visibly drooping. He prods it with his spoon and heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and leaning against my shoulder.

“Ron, dear, why don’t you take Harry upstairs and get him settled? He looks done in,” Mum suggests, and I agree hastily. We’re halfway to the stairs when she adds, “Bring the bottles with you when you come back down.”

“Bottles?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

“Yes, dear. The bottles on the bedside table; all of them. There should be a sheet of Healer’s instructions as well, but if you can’t find it, the bottles will be enough.”

I swallow hard. “Right.”

I take as long as possible. It isn’t hard; I practically carry Harry up the last couple of flights of stairs, and though he mumbles something about a shower, he drifts off almost immediately once I’ve helped him undress and tucked him in.

I don’t find the instructions right away, but a quick rifle through the pockets of his discarded Auror robes yields an itemised list that I can’t read properly in the semi dark. I pick up the bottles, and walk back down the stairs slowly, heart pounding, bracing myself for whatever’s coming.

My pudding is still waiting for me, but Mum has brewed a pot of tea in the mean time and is pouring out. I hover in the doorway uncertainly, not sure where this is going.

“You’re not in trouble, Ron,” Dad said softly, his eyes calm.

“Just set them down here, and finish your pudding,” Mum adds, patting the table. “You found the instructions? Good.”

I slide into my seat and take a tiny bite of my pudding. It’s delicious, of course, but I’m anxious to know what’s going on. Mum immediately picks up the opened bottle, scrutinises the label, and pulls out the cork to sniff at it.

“Just as I thought, Arthur. Their apothecary’s heavy handed with the valerian,” she declares. I blink at Mum a little foolishly as she runs her pinky finger around the lip of the bottle and touches it lightly to her tongue. “Too much lemon balm, as well, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing at this stage.”

A sudden, euphoric smile spreads across her face, before she takes a deep, steadying breath. “Effective, very effective. Exactly what he needs right now. The instructions?”

Mutely, I pass them over. She skims them efficiently, then lines the bottles up in a neat row, being very particular about the order.

“Aren’t they all the same?” I ask. The directions on the front are identical, from what I can see.

“Oh, no,” Mum says, looking a little stunned, as though surprised someone could think so. “See this?” She points to a tiny pair of numbers in the bottom corner of the label of the open bottle that I hadn’t noticed. 1 : 1. “That means this bottle is full-strength, a very powerful sedative. Whereas this one,” She picks up another, partway down the row, marked 1 : 5. “is fairly weak. That means it’s watered down. They’re all the same potion, but different strengths. The higher the second number is, the weaker it is.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, wondering when Mum turned into Hermione, “and how did you know there was too much valerian, just from the smell?”

“Your mother achieved an Outstanding on her potions NEWT,” Dad says, proudly.

“I was accepted for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s too. They didn’t take everybody in those days,” she says, with a twinkle of smugness.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I got pregnant with Bill. I could have left him with your grandmother after he was born, but I decided not to. I wanted to spend as much time with my children as I could, before you all went off to Hogwarts. And it came in useful, having that bit of training, even if I wasn’t there long enough to qualify as a Healer. We only had to take you kids to St. Mungo’s a couple of times when you were little, and my Bruise Balm is better than any you could buy.”

I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suddenly realised that maybe not everyone’s mum had wormwood, feverfew and nettles growing in the garden alongside the vegetables, or regularly took her kids on long, rambling walks to harvest willow bark and thistledown. I’d taken it for granted that Mum knew the names and uses for every green thing, and could heal everything from a bump on the head to a broken arm with a wave of her wand or a potion, and a cuddle and kiss. It was normal that sometimes meals were a salad and cold leftover pie eaten out of doors, because the kitchen was being used to brew something medicinal and was full of fumes; especially when Fred and George were young and constantly finding new ways to hurt themselves, each other, or those around them.

“Now,” Mum says, drawing the conversation back to the important topic. “He’ll be on this one here,” she taps the opened bottle, “until Sunday. _Then_ , he’s to start taking this one instead.” She holds up one labelled 1 : 2. “It’s half the strength of that one. He’s going to notice the difference straight away, and he’s going to want to go back to the stronger one. Don’t let him. If he won’t listen to you, or tries to take too much of the weaker one, give all the bottles to me, and I’ll give him his proper doses when he eats his meals.”

I swallow hard, dreading the grim prospect of fighting Harry over the potion. “It’s... it’s addictive, then?” I ask, in a small voice.

“Not the ingredients, no. The relief it gives him from having to deal with his problems, yes,” she says, a bit of steel in her eyes. “He’s not going to like it when he’s alert enough to worry about them again. We’re going to have to be firm with him.”

My appetite is gone completely, and I push aside the pudding, which I seem to have mangled into crumbs with my spoon rather than eating. Mum takes my abandoned bowl, and presses the cup of tea into my hands. “Drink up, love. It’s good for what ails you.”

It’s not black tea, but one of Mum’s special blends, fragrant with chamomile and peppermint. I swallow it down obediently, and lean into her with relief when she comes around the table to give me a hug.

“You’re not alone in this, Ron,” Dad assures me, reaching across to squeeze my shoulder.

I nod, and try to let the tea relax me. Sitting like this, with Mum standing next to me, holding me against her I can pretend just for a moment that I’m nine years old again, and my biggest worry is that Fred and George will ambush me in the garden and try to make me cry.


	44. Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A preventative measure is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.

The first week Harry is on the Calming Draught passes swiftly enough. He doesn’t seem bored. In fact, he dozes and daydreams away most of the day, and sleeps heavily at night, without any apparent inclination to do anything more active. I give him books to read before I leave for work, but when I return home, they’re either exactly where I left them, or have been discarded after barely a glance. I suspect he can’t focus his thoughts enough to follow them.

Instead, he stares out the window.

It chills me each time I come home to find him sitting in bed, hair mussed from the pillow, looking out over the orchard. It doesn’t take much imagination to think back just over a year and paint his hair red instead of black.

Fortunately, Harry doesn’t fight me when I coax him from the room to take a shower, to come downstairs and listen to the Wireless with me while dinner’s being cooked. He isn’t pining away like George was; he’s just stopped fighting.

“He’s resting,” Mum reassures me, when I ask her worriedly about it. “His body and mind need it.”

I can see her point. Harry is losing that pinched, haunted look and starting to put some weight back on, which is great. He’d begun looking like he used to after a long summer at the Dursleys’. Even still, I want to take those bloody bottles and tip the contents of each down the sink, one at a time. _My_ Harry was never like this, placidly sitting, day after day, like someone who’s suffered an unfortunate hex to the head.

On Sunday, he takes his first lower dose.

I break the seal, pull the cork and pass him the bottle. He’s already got his hand out for it, before I even offer it, and seeing that makes me feel a little ill. That same, measured swallow, and he gives it back to me. When I look up from replacing the bottle on the bedside table, his expression is one of mild confusion.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Fine,” he answers immediately, though there’s a furrow in his brow that says otherwise.

“Coming down for breakfast, today?” 

I don’t expect him to say yes, since every other day he’s chosen to sleep a little longer, only staying awake long enough for Mum or me to bring him up a cup of tea and toast, but to my surprise, he pushes back the sheets. He seems to have trouble deciding what to wear, so I grab him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and he puts them on without complaint.

For the first time in a week, he walks down the stairs on his own without my support, though he keeps a splayed hand on the wall for balance.

Mum keeps a sharp eye on Harry throughout breakfast, and urges him (although not with her usual vehemence) to take seconds of the bacon, eggs and sausages. Perhaps it’s because Harry doesn’t even roll his eyes at me in amusement, like he usually does when she mothers him, but politely takes more and attempts to eat it. Or it could be that she has seen the subtle signs that I have; the occasional glances towards the stairs when he thinks he’s not being watched.

After we’ve eaten, I lure him outside to sit in the shade under the apple trees. It’s a warm, lazy day, and it’s a particularly lovely weekend to be in the Devon countryside, and not in London, dressed in magenta robes and packing bags with joke products. If things were different, it’d be a wonderful day for a leisurely frot in the long, sweet grass, hidden from the main windows of the house as we are by the trees and the curve of the hill, but since that first night, he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in sex, so I don’t even ask. Even if he had brought it up, I don’t think would have felt right saying yes anyway; not with him so muddled.

Harry sits next to me, but he’s not chatty, and he seems restless. He shreds leaves and grass and bits of bark into tiny pieces, chewing his lip, only responding to my talk about the upcoming Quidditch season with lukewarm enthusiasm. He lasts until ten o’clock before escaping back to the house with the excuse of needing the toilet. I follow at a distance, and, sure enough, I find him in our bedroom, pulling things out of drawers.

“Where are they? The bottles, I need them. It’s not working,” he says, frantically.

“It’s working, Harry,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. “It’s just a weaker dose, that’s all.”

“I need more! It’s not working. Where did you hide them?” He dumps out a drawer on the floor, contents scattering with a clatter.

“I didn’t hide them, Harry,” I reply, honestly. “I’ve been with you all morning.”

“You’re lying!” Harry shouts. He’s trembling all over, and his eyes are frightened and furious. “Tell me where they are!” He’s got his wand pointed at me, but before he can hex me, a steady voice from behind me says, “Expelliarmus!” and I turn to see Mum holding Harry’s wand as well as her own.

“Ron is not lying, Harry. _I_ moved the bottles.” Harry doesn’t look any less angry. Rather, he looks highly pissed off at being disarmed by a woman wearing an apron patterned with slightly cartoonish cockerels. “Give us a moment, would you, dear? I think Harry has some things he’d like to say to me. Go on.”

She pushes me gently from the room and shuts the door, but doesn’t cast a Privacy Charm of any kind.

Then, she lets Harry shout.

I haven’t heard anything like it since the end of the summer holidays, years ago, at Grimmauld Place, when Harry had been kept in the dark about the Order.

And, more surprisingly, Mum doesn’t yell back for a long time. She just lets him rant and rave for minutes, venting his frustration in one long, rambling diatribe. 

“You’re _not_ my mum, so _stop trying to be!_ You’ll _never_ be my mum!” he screams at last.

“No, I’m not your mum!” she snaps, finally. “But I’m _his!_ And if you think I’m going to stand back and let you hex him when he’s just trying to help you, you’d better think again!”

A long silence follows, as though both combatants are taking a breath, either to recover or in preparation for the next round.

“You’re hurting so much,” Mum says, so softly I can barely hear it through the door. “Is it really so hard to admit it? Is it worth losing him? Because you will, in the end, if you don’t let him in.”

Harry doesn’t reply. Instead, there is a strange choked sound, the shuffle of someone taking several steps, a shuddering intake of breath.

“Ron?” Mum says, a few moments later. “You can come in, now.”

Amidst the wreckage of our room, Harry stands in Mum’s arms, his head on her shoulder, his shoulders shaking as he sobs silently. At her nod, I come close, touch him gently, and he turns into my embrace. His blunt nails bite into my arms as he clings to me, as though he’s afraid to let go.

“I’ll make us a pot of tea,” Mum says, and she leaves to do just that.


	45. Renascence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you've hit rock bottom, what is there to do but start climbing?

You don't want to hurt me,  
But see how deep the bullet lies.  
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.  
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.  
So much hate for the ones we love?  
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?  
 _Running Up That Hill_ \- Placebo *

***

It is like lancing a wound. Molly Weasley stands there and watches as the poison spills out of me in a rush, until nothing is flowing from me but tears, and then it isn’t her arms around me, but Ron’s, and it is Ron who is pressing his lips to my hair, Ron who is guiding me to sit on the edge of our bed, and I bury my face into his neck and hold on tight as I can.

I cry myself raw and ragged. I don’t know what in particular I am crying _about_ , even; just that I hurt, and that things have gone terribly wrong, and that even though it is horrible, a part of me knows I need this.

I lose track of time. I hear Molly come in, and the sound of something being set on the bedside table.

“Shouldn’t we give him some?” I vaguely hear Ron ask. There is pain in his voice, and I feel guilty for causing it.

“Not this time,” is the reply. 

In the end, I am left, trembling and weak, and quite disgustingly damp and slimy. My breath is still coming in strange, hitching spasms, and my eyes are burning.

“I think I dribbled on you,” I mumble. I’m pretty sure there’s mucus smeared across my face, and Ron’s neck, too, but I’d rather not admit it. 

Ron gives an empty little laugh, and murmurs that it doesn’t matter. He’s rocking me gently, and in my slightly disconnected state it feels soothing, as though we’re floating in water and the bed is a raft riding the ripples.

I convince one stiff, clawed hand to disentangle from Ron’s shirt and rub it clumsily across my face.

“Here.”

A handkerchief is offered to me, and once I’ve wiped it thoroughly across my cheeks, neck, chin, and Ron’s neck as well, it’s taken away, and a still-warm cup of tea is there. Ron holds my fingers tight around it until he’s sure I’m not going to drop it, and I sip numbly. It’s not hot, but it’s still drinkable. The ribbed, yellow mug is one of a pair, one of the little set that I used whenever I made Ron tea in the mornings. I can’t remember the last time I did it. It certainly hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop. I’d just started taking on longer hours at work, arriving earlier, getting home later, and the ritual had somehow fallen by the wayside. Apparating to work half-asleep and drinking a substandard brew made in the Auror Department’s little kitchen was something I’d gotten used to. 

With a surge of emotion, I realise I’ve missed that morning ritual of making tea, waking Ron with his cup; half-tea, half-milk. Sleepy cuddles, warm, milky kisses, an occasional interchange of touches that would lead to more, which would result in me running for the door, hair sticking up at all angles, shoes untied and robes askew, chased out by the sound of Ron’s laughter as I made a desperate attempt to try to arrive at work not too late, and focus on my paperwork and physical defence training without daydreaming and writing complete nonsense or getting my arse handed to me by Auror Muscoli.

“I’ve been horrible,” I say, staring into the dregs.

“You’ve not been well,” Ron replies, tactfully non-committal.

“I’ve been _horrible_ ,” I emphasise, feeling sick. “I said... I don’t really remember, but I said awful things to your mum. I know they were awful.”

Ron doesn’t deny it, just rocks me a bit more, and I shut my eyes and relax back against him. At length, he takes the cup from me, and I twine my fingers with his.

“I love you,” I say softly.

“I love you, too,” he replies immediately, his voice tight.

“But why?” I ask, my voice pathetically frail.

“Because,” Ron says, as though that is answer enough. I think that maybe it is. His arm around me squeezes me closer, a little possessively, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“You’re mental, wanting me around. Smashing up your room, swearing at your mum,” I say eventually, stroking his thumb with my own. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“It’s _our_ room, and someone has to swear at mum for me. I’m too bloody scared to do it myself,” Ron quips, and I can hear him smiling. “And if I’m mental, well, I’ve got company.”

“I don’t understand you,” I tell him, unable to comprehend _why_.

“Well, you said it,” Ron says, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m mental. My logic is unfathomable.”

I tilt my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in a frown. “ _Unfathomable?_ ”

He grins cheekily. “Incomprehensible.”

I squint at him suspiciously. Before I can accuse him of being Hermione, Polyjuiced, he leans down and kisses me on the lips. Though it’s simply his lips on mine, there is nothing chaste about it. I lie, pliant and passive in his arms as he cradles me, threads a hand into my hair, and tells me slowly, tenderly, and without words just how much he loves me.

I’ve never felt so safe.

When we pull apart, I look up at him, and he seems about as stunned as I feel. Something just happened, then, something important. Something that neither of us are quite ready to talk about, yet.

Ron clears his throat. “Mum should be making lunch. Are you hungry?” he asks, lightly.

I’m not, really, but I shrug, and make an effort to stand on my wobbly legs. I wrinkle my nose when I see the shoulder of Ron’s shirt. It’s still damp with who knows what from my outburst. Ron seems unconcerned, and simply strips it off and tugs on another.

As we walk down the stairs together, I can’t help but ask. “Where did you pick up a word like unfathomable?” 

Ron looks slightly chagrined. “ _Quidditch Monthly_ used it a few years ago when they were talking about the new Cannons signings. I had to ask Hermione what it meant.”

I laugh out loud, and it takes me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Even Ron seems startled, though he looks pleased.

When we reach the kitchen, there’s a glass in front of my regular seat with a dose of potion in it, waiting for me. I take it and swallow it down, and when I look up, I see that Molly is watching me with something like pride on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, before I posted this chapter, I posted a fake chapter, Oblivion, to relieve some stress at writing hard-core emotional breakdown, and to play a trick on my regular readers who might not have read the header. It was a lot of fun, and it did help me get moving on the big emotional stuff. [Oblivion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116445) is available as a cookie fic, for those who need a bit of light relief and black humour before getting back to Harry's breakdown. I highly recommend it; it did me the world of good writing it.


	46. Edible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much at the Burrow is good enough to eat.

Monday dawns, and Ron goes back to work. In no time at all, I’m desperately bored. By eleven o’clock, despite my blurred concentration, I’ve already penned letters to Ginny, Hermione and Neville, and read the _Prophet_ twice (laughing long and hard at their article that speculates I’m working undercover in a super-secret Knockturn Alley operation). I’ve even flicked through _Witch Weekly_ a couple of times, though the section on ‘Beauty Tips to Keep Your Man’ makes me boggle, a little. I know I’ve not had much experience with girls, but I doubt the average guy notices or cares if his girl has coordinated her cloak and her shoes, especially as with longer robes, you don’t tend to be able to see their shoes anyway.

I trudge downstairs and offer to help Molly with lunch. In the end, I spend the whole afternoon down there helping to chop strawberries and apples and stewing them to make a thick, syrupy jam. After pouring most of the cooked jam into sterilized jars to set, we break briefly for a cup of tea before beginning almost at once on dinner. I set about making the steamed pudding for dessert, spooning some of the leftover jam in the bottom of the pudding bowl before covering it with the batter, tying the whole lot up neatly and putting it on to cook.

When Ron gets home, Molly and I are both sitting at the table, working our way through yet another cup of tea and discussing differences in magical and Muggle cooking techniques. I am struggling valiantly to explain exactly how to use an egg beater, and planning on buying at least two cheap ones the next time I’m in London; one for Molly and Arthur each.

The moment Ron steps out of the Floo, his nose points up, and he scents the air like a hound, before he spots the two of us sitting at the table in all our flour-smudged, slightly sticky glory. He beams.

“None for you yet, Ron Weasley,” Molly says, before Ron can even open his mouth. “There’s pudding for afters, as you well know, by now. You can wait.”

Ron’s face falls, and he actually pouts. Molly just laughs at him, and when I join in, his lip sticks out further.

“Go on upstairs, and get changed,” Molly tells him. “You too, Harry. You’ve got time for a quick wash before it’s time to eat.”

We trudge obediently up to our room. 

“You’ve been all right, then?” Ron asks, as we slip inside and he shuts the door behind us.

I simply turn and slip my arms around his waist, laying my head against his shoulder. He cuddles me gingerly.

“I missed you,” I mumble.

Ron kisses the top of my head, and inhales deeply. “You smell like jam,” he says, with a hint of longing.

“Pudding soon,” I remind him. “I made it, too.”

“Yeah?” he asks. He sounds impressed.

“Yeah.”

“You had fun then, hanging out with Mum?” He sounds a touch disbelieving.

To be honest, I hadn’t realised how much lighter I felt. Molly had poured me my lunchtime potion from the bottle she had stowed in her apron, and I’d drunk it, and we hadn’t even stopped chatting. Rather than focussing on the potion and dwelling on the urge to follow her later and find out where she kept it, I was engrossed in what she was telling me about what it was like when _she_ had learnt to cook from her grandmother; an exacting and impatient woman who demanded every ingredient be measured down to the tiniest fraction of an ounce, and no recipe deviated from in the slightest. Molly and her grandmother had had very different styles and clashed ferociously, to say the least, though I had no doubt that it was from her grandmother that Molly inherited her skill and love for cooking. 

“I had a lot of fun,” I say honestly, thinking back on the afternoon.

Ron nuzzles my hair some more, and I wonder idly if he’s about to start nibbling on it. The thought makes me giggle, and I tilt my chin up and meet his mouth with my own. 

Long, slow, tantalising kisses ensue. No pressure, no rapid acceleration of pace, just standing close, exploring each other with lips and tongue and the slightest, gentlest hint of teeth. Ron’s hands slide across my back; one curls around my waist, the other drifts up to sit at the nape of my neck. My own hands rest firmly on his hips to begin with, but end up slipping down to cup his arse. He lets out a little moan at that, and I feel the muscles clench and release beneath my fingertips.

Ron pulls me just that little bit closer, and his erection bumps against my stomach. I feel a sudden spike of arousal, and I’m halfway to being hard myself, but right then, we hear Molly calling from downstairs. Both of us let out a groan of frustration.

“Later,” Ron murmurs, giving me a final peck on the lips before pulling away to undress.

By the time later comes, we’re so stuffed with second helpings of dinner and third helpings of pudding that it’s all we can do to climb the stairs and fall into bed, curling around each other, listening to our stomachs gurgling as we fall asleep.

***

An hour later, I wake up screaming.

At least, I think I do.

It isn’t until I’ve lain there for half a minute, frozen, in the dark, my heart pounding frantically, my breath rushing in and out, that I realise Ron is still sleeping peacefully, his arm draped across my chest. Even Ron wouldn’t sleep through me yelling like that.

 _All in your head_ , I tell myself, and try and settle back down again.

It feels like I’ve barely closed my eyes when the terror seizes me again, and I wake up with my hands balled in the sheets. 

_This isn’t going to work_ , I realise, when I jolt to consciousness a third time.

Taking care not to disturb Ron, I slip from the sheets and go downstairs to make myself a pot of tea. Curling up in an armchair, I drink cup after cup just for something to do. I’d rather do just about anything except lie down in the dark and let my own mind attack me. 

I must nod off at some point because in the pre-dawn, when the light outside is cold and blue-grey, I feel Molly’s hands gently tucking a blanket around me.


	47. Meditation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets some things in order.

Ron helps me up to our room at about eight o’clock, right before he leaves for work. I sleep until midday, waking in time for lunch. The potion I drink without complaint, but I pick at my food and am generally grouchy and bad-tempered. 

When I’ve eaten all I can, I head back towards the stairs, but Molly is faster. She grabs me by the shoulders, propels me out through the kitchen door, and orders me to go for a walk.

“Fresh air and sunshine will do you good,” she declares, before shutting the door firmly behind me. I hear the bolt sliding home. My wand is still in my room.

Bugger.

I don’t go far. I walk – or rather, stomp – around the perimeter of the Burrow twice to let off steam. I kick a few clods of grass, swear at the chickens, and glare menacingly at the gnomes giggling in the bushes. In the end, I wander down to the orchard and lie under a tree to get out of the sun. It’s not hot, as such, but it’s bright and glary and my head is beginning to ache.

I don’t sleep, though I thought I might. I lie there and let thoughts and memories stream through my head unchecked. Though I’m not actively _doing_ anything with them, it’s somehow calming, and feels rather like taking a large trunk of jumbled odds and ends and sorting them into categories according to type or importance, and filing them away neatly again. 

Time passes, the sun creeps across the sky, and by the time I hear Ron calling me, I’m simply lying there trying to make pictures in the clouds and leaves above me. About six feet up, and two feet to my left, the leaves and branches make a pretty passable outline of Fawkes-in-flame, with a puff of cottony cloud just visible behind for smoke. I add it to the list of things I’ve identified, which so far includes a hippogriff’s claw, a flobberworm, and a demented rabbit.

“Over here,” I reply, and he comes and stands over me. The cloud I thought looked a bit like a dragon egg crowns his head like a fluffy halo.

“Mum said you went for a walk hours ago,” Ron says, a little concernedly. “She didn’t know where you were.” His faint tone of disapproval suggests that deep down he thinks Molly should be charged with some kind of criminal neglect.

Somehow, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I know he’s worried about me, and that he isn’t meaning to be overly protective. Instead, I affect a casual shrug. “I’ve been here the whole time. I’m _fine_ ,” I add, cutting off further fussing. “What are you doing home, anyway?”

“It’s nearly six,” Ron says.

“Oh.” 

I had no idea I’d been out here so long. Hiding my discomposure at time apparently moving so swiftly, I pat the grass next to me. Ron takes the hint and stretches out next to me. I point up.

“Don’t you think that looks a bit like a demented rabbit? There, where those branches cross,” I ask.

Ron tilts his head and squints. “I _suppose_ so,” he says slowly. “What part is that bit going off that way then?”

“A demented rabbit that was in a tragic accident,” I declare solemnly.

“Ah,” Ron says, equally gravely. “That bit over there looks like a gnome’s todger.”

“Yuck!” I declare emphatically.

“It does!” Ron insists with a snigger. “See those leaves right beneath it? They’re the same shape as bollocks and everything.”

“How do you even know that much about gnome bollocks? Does this have something to do with that story you wouldn’t let your dad tell me?” I ask cannily.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ron says breezily. “And that knot in the trunk there? The one with the moss around it? That looks just like a-”

I smack him on the arm. 

“What?” Ron asks, wide-eyed.

“You know exactly what, and I don’t need to hear that some bit of a tree looks exactly like Hermione’s... parts,” I tell him. “Especially not just before dinner.”

He pouts. Right then, Molly calls from the kitchen door. 

“Coming, Mum!” Ron bellows back.

We both climb to our feet, brushing off dirt and grass and the occasional beetle.

“Oh,” Ron says, with the air of someone who has suddenly remembered something. “Mum wants to know what cake you want. I was supposed to be asking you.”

“Cake?” I ask blankly.  
Ron looks at me as if I’m a little simple. “For your birthday,” he says slowly. “Next week.”

“Oh. Right,” I flounder. “Um, I don’t really mind. Anything would be fantastic.”

Ron looks relieved and nods, but doesn’t turn towards the house. “What do you want? For your birthday, that is,” he asks, looking a little nervous and expectant.

My immediate impulse is to say ‘you don’t have to get me anything’, but something tells me that that would be the wrong thing. Based on past experience, Ron would likely think I was just saying it because he didn’t have much money, and we’d get into a roaring fight.

Not good.

Instead of thinking about small and inexpensive gifts, my mind is drawn back to those neat piles it made earlier, those sorted stacks of mental detritus, and something clicks.

“I want you to say yes,” I say.

Ron looks confused, and a little suspicious. “Yes to what?” he asks.

“I’m going to ask you for something; nothing bad, don’t worry. Not today, probably not this week, but soonish. When I do, you’ll know, and I want you to say yes.”

I worry that he’s going to demand answers, and I feel my heartbeat speed up a little, in anticipation of a possible fight. He doesn’t. He just looks at me a little quizzically, and nods.

“Whatever you need,” he says softly, and slips his hand into mine as we head back towards the house.

***

That night, there is a small glass on my bedside table, containing a dose of Dreamless Sleep potion, and I drink it, gratefully. When I wake, refreshed and rested the next morning, I decide that it’s high time I bought Molly a present. 

Flicking back through the now dog-eared copy of _Witch Weekly_ , I find the full-page advert for their special edition cookery book. I know Molly clips the recipes religiously and keeps them filed in a drawer specially reserved for the purpose. This volume holds all the featured recipes going back two decades, and has a ‘read-aloud’ feature that’s voice activated, for times when you’re up to your elbows in a turkey or have fingers too sticky to turn the pages, which I think is particularly nifty. I quickly scrawl an order for a copy on a clean sheet of parchment, giving permission for Flourish and Blotts to take the Galleons directly from my vault at Gringotts.

“Hey, Pig,” I call quietly. “Want to go to London for me?”

Pig puffs up importantly on his perch then begins his customary, excited orbits of the room, as though nothing could delight him more.


	48. Fledging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry decides to take an important step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Belated Birthday stillicides
> 
>  
> 
> You asked for something happy, with someone overcoming a stress.

I stand in the middle of Diagon Alley, frozen, as if in fear, my hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

“You don’t have to do this _now_ , y’know,” Ron says, gently.

I shake myself a little. “I do, Ron. It’s not fair on you. Or Pig.”

“Pig’s fine. That potion Mum made fixed him up a treat.”

“He shouldn’t have to be carrying mail for both of us. He wouldn’t have collapsed in the first place, if he hadn’t tried to carry that parcel all on his own. He should have waited for the clerk at Flourish and Blotts to put a Lightening or a Shrinking Charm on it, but he didn’t. He just took off, wanting to prove how strong he was.”

Ron snorts. “Well, that’s his own bloody fault. Stupid bird.”

Ron sounds casually scornful, but I had seen his distress during Pig’s recuperation. Coming so close to losing his owl had frightened him horribly.

I shake my head. “It could have killed him, Ron, and it would have been my fault. I should have bought my own owl months ago. I’m just being stupid.”

Still, I stand outside the doorway to Eeylops’ Owl Emporium, unable to bring myself to enter. Ron places a hand on my shoulder, and that is enough. Taking a deep breath, I move forward, and find myself inside.

I catch my breath as my eyes adjust. The shop is full of shadows, and much larger than it appears from the outside. Owls of every size sit on perches and in cages from floor to ceiling and along all four walls, ranging from tiny [Pygmy Owls](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e0/Glaucidium_passerinum_am3.jpg), smaller than my hand, to massive, hawk-like owls that are surely capable of carrying off a small child.

“How do I choose?” I gape.

“How did you choose last time?” Ron asks, looking a bit overwhelmed himself.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Hedwig just sort of… stood out.”

Given the gloom of the shop (dimly lit for the owls’ comfort), it wasn’t surprising that I’d headed straight for the [Snowy Owl](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/29/Snowy_Owl_1.jpg) on my first excursion into Diagon Alley. Her white plumage had been like a beacon.

The shopkeeper bustles over, all deference and barely-contained excitement. “Mr Potter! What an honour! Right this way, sir, right this way!”

I am immediately subjected to the man’s cheerful patter. He seems to be out to impress. Knowing my last owl was a beautiful specimen, and a foreign species, too, he seems to think I require something equally showy for my new purchase. He is just extolling the merits of a rather savage and haughty-looking [Eagle Owl](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d2/Uhu-muc.jpg) when a bird catches my eye.

“What about that one?” I ask, interrupting the steady flow of information for the first time in at least ten minutes.

The shopkeeper blinks. “A Barn Owl. If you’re interested in Barn Owls, sir, we have, newly in, _Tyto novaehollandiae_ , an [Australian Masked Owl](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b0/Masked_owl_mask4441.jpg). Very unique in this country.”

“What about that one, though?” I insist, taking a step closer to the bird, which ruffles its feathers and peers at me curiously, with liquid dark eyes.

“That’s _Tyto alba_ , a [Common Barn Owl](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3e/Tyto_alba_close_up.jpg). We have dozens. Very reliable breed, if nondescript.”

I cautiously stretch out a hand, and it nibbles gently at my fingers before tilting its head in a clear entreaty for me to scratch its neck. When I do so, its eyes sink half-shut in clear pleasure.

“I like this one,” I say, my lips curving up into a smile.

“We have both male and female Barn Owls of all ages, if you have a preference, sir,” the shopkeeper offers. “Some of our Barn Owls have been specially trained to –”

“ _This_ one,” I clarify.

“That is a female owl, then. She is young, but has had the basic training that all our birds receive.”

She doesn’t look a thing like Hedwig, despite her light colouring. Her heart shaped face, her delicately patterned wings, and her obviously affectionate nature appeal to me. A quick glance at Ron (who smiles encouragingly), and I find that saying the words is nowhere near as difficult as I’d dreaded.

“I’ll take her.”

If the shopkeeper is disappointed that his most famous customer has not chosen an exotic and highly expensive breed, he does his best to hide it, and bustles about organising papers of sale, a cage of the correct dimensions, a perch and a large, complementary bag of Owl Treats.

***

“You found a name for her yet?” Ron asks, later that evening, as we lie side by side on the bed.

Though it is getting dark, the owl is sitting on her perch placidly, making no move to fly out the open window in front of her to hunt. She probably isn’t hungry, given the amount of Owl Treats Ron and I fed her earlier, on the flimsy excuse of ‘getting her settled in’.

I shake my head. For the sake of tradition, I am flicking through a rather battered copy of _A History of Magic_. I gave up on the section on the Goblin Wars after deciding that goblins did indeed have rather ugly and unwieldy names, all entirely unsuitable. The chapter on giant conflicts proved equally useless, and I began opening the book to random pages in the hope of getting lucky.

In a chapter on the persecution of wizardkind by Muggles, I suddenly strike gold.

“Um, Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“How do you say this name?”

Ron leans over to peer at the word I am pointing at. “Cay-oym-hee?” he sounds out, experimentally. “ No bloody idea, mate. Why?”

I shrug. “She was a pretty incredible person.” I clear my throat. “Um, _Ki-um-he_ , er... _Koy_... whatever... _also known as the Gentle Witch of Maigh Eo, practised as a Healer in Ireland in the sixteenth century. She treated any who came to her, magical or Muggle, and refused to stop practicing her art publically even when witch trials became rampant in the area. When she told a local crofter that his child’s sickness was beyond her power to cure, he turned the village against her, and she had to flee for her life. However, by using Memory Charms, Polyjuice and other disguising techniques, she continued to help the Muggles she had chosen to watch over until the end of her days_.”

Ron blinks. “Er yeah. Great.” He looks deadly bored. “Why don’t you just call her something simple?”

“All right, I just like how it looks,” I confess, stroking the page.

“Seamus’d know,” Ron says, his face lighting up a little. “And you could owl him to ask, now. He’s in London at the moment, so that’s not too far.”

“Hey, owl? Girl?” The owl turns on her perch at my call. “Want to deliver a letter for me?”

She clicks her beak, spreads her wings and glides over land lightly to the bed. I Accio a pencil and a piece of parchment and scribble a short note.

_Seamus, this is Caoimhe, my new owl. How do you say ‘Caoimhe’, exactly? I’ve only seen it written. Say hi to Ginny for me.  
Harry_

Caoimhe watches me intently as I tell her the recipient and the address, then flies out the window soundlessly, the breeze from her wings brushing me like a caress.

Experimentally, I reach for a memory of Hedwig, and to my surprise, there’s no guilt there, just gentle melancholy and love. I sigh, and drop the heavy book on floor, then turn and cuddle up to Ron, who’s still engrossed in his Quidditch magazine.

“You all right, then?” he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” I answer, a warmth blossoming inside me as I think of my new owl winging her way through the twilit sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the look of Gaelic names and words in text, but it never fails to amuse me at how different they often sound when spoken. According to wikipedia, 'Caiomhe' is pronounced KEE-va or KWEE-va, though there are slight differences in inflection depending on the region of Ireland in which the word is used. It's from the same root as the much more popular 'Kevin'.
> 
> I very often choose names of OCs deliberately for their meaning. This was no exception. 'Caiomhe' means 'gentle', 'beautiful' or 'precious'. I wanted the name to be a direct reflection of the bird's attributes, but also, for it to be a sharp contrast to Harry's first owl. 'Hedwig', from Old German, is derived from the words 'hadu' meaning battle, and 'wig' meaning fight. In these post-War years, I felt a fairly standard breed of owl with a peaceful name was appropriate to Harry's life, whereas Hedwig, who accompanied Harry throughout his formative, strife-torn years, was an oddity and a curiousity in Britain, and had a ferocious name that reflected the struggles.


	49. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry admits some important developments, both to himself and somebody else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I told myself I would not write... and then I wrote it anyway. It proved unavoidable, and there are some important minor plot things that needed to be sneaked in that it was useful for, I suppose.

The last couple of days of my forced leave slip through my fingers swiftly. An excursion into Muggle London with Ron on the Saturday, and a lazy, lie-in-bed-all-day-and-frot-and-sleep-and-suck-and-sleep-and-eventually-slip-downstairs-in-time-for-dinner-looking-smug on Sunday.

After that, waking up early on Monday morning and slipping on my Auror robes proves a little nerve-wracking. I turn my back to the bed so that Ron doesn’t see how my hands are shaking as I fasten the buttons and ties.

I force myself to eat breakfast, though my stomach churns, because I know I need to. The potion in the glass beside my plate is noticeably paler in colour today. Molly broke the seal on a new bottle this morning, and the dose is now just a quarter of the strength of the original one. I feel it there, gently dampening my nerves, calming my jitters and even settling my stomach as I turn on the spot and Disapparate, reappearing with a crack in the Ministry’s designated Apparition Zone.

Walking through the doors into the Department is one of the most difficult things I can remember doing, on a scale involving only those things that didn’t involve death and curses being flung at me. For a few panicked moments, I think I’d rather take the curses. 

_Is everyone staring at me? Oh, God, they are, aren’t they? They_ know _, I know they do. They know I cracked up..._

I force myself to take a deep, slow breath, and by the time I let it out again, I realise everyone in the Department is pretty much doing what they always do first thing in the morning – commenting loudly to each other on the headlines in the _Prophet_ or talking in hushed, serious tones about current or unsolved cases, and opening letters or going over paperwork while slurping cups of tea or coffee, often in between gnawing on slices of cold toast. Pepperwick, who sits nearest the door, is dunking his toast in his milky tea like a biscuit. It is ever-so-slightly revolting, as it always is, but familiar, and is reassuring for its regularity. The earth turns, people are born, die, and have nervous breakdowns, and still Pepperwick drinks cold tea that is half toast crumbs.

“Potter,” a gruff voice says, behind me. Instantly, I straighten my posture and turn to face Auror Campester.

“Good morning, sir,” I say, in what I hope is my most sane voice.

“No paperwork this morning, Potter. Just open your mail and settle in, help Trott out if you get bored, and be sure to leave here by quarter past ten. Pondera’s expecting you in her office by no later than half past.”

I open my mail. I read someone else’s copy of the _Prophet_. I help Trott organise the contents of an evidence box that looks like a Niffler has rampaged through it, restoring it to some form of logical neatness. When that is done, I offer to do a teaboy run, and earn the grateful smiles of the entire department, including the half a dozen or so who’d been looking a little askance at me, as though pondering the fact that I’d been on holiday in midsummer and hadn’t come back with a tan. I wonder if they’d believed the _Prophet_ ’s wild speculation about undercover work. 

By the time I return and hand out the cups of coffee, tea and little packets of crisps, chocolates and biscuits, I have just enough time to dash out the door and make it to Pondera’s office for my ten thirty appointment.

“Harry! Come in,” Healer Pondera says, beaming. Her eyes scan my face shrewdly, even as her smile is warm and welcoming, and the cup of tea she pours for me is perfect, as it always is.

“You look much better,” she tells me, with a straightforwardness that makes me blink. “But we can talk more about that a little later. First, I want to hear about your godson.”

“He’s enormous!” I blurt, truthfully. I had seen him on Friday, and if his hair hadn’t been green, I wouldn’t have recognised him. “I swear he was a baby, only a minute ago, and now he’s this little person who climbs on the furniture and swears at his grandmother when he doesn’t want to have a bath. I think I might have to start taking him for the night on weekends, just to give Andromeda some peace.”

“How do you feel about taking on more of a parental role?” Pondera asks. “Does it frighten you?”

“A bit,” I admit, thinking while I chew on a gingernut that is wonderfully spicy and feels hard enough that it may just crack my molars. “But it’s kind of exciting, too. He’s this little person, and he loves me, just for being _me_ , not because I’m Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

Though I didn’t really plan my answer out, I suddenly realise that it was the right thing to say, because she smiles again, and there’s a genuine twinkle in her eyes.

“Children are both the most and least forgiving people in the world, and a very good mirror for our best qualities, as well as our faults. They tell the truth when an adult would demure or lie outright, for the sake of propriety, or manners. Another?” She lifts the teapot.

“Please,” I say, holding out my cup for more.

“I think spending more time with your godson would be a good thing, for both of you.” Pondera continues. “Indeed, for all three of you. It’s not healthy for a grieving widow to be trapped at home all day with naught but a toddler for company. A little free time now and then would allow her to socialise without the constraints a child creates by its mere presence.”

I nod. She’s right, of course. I know that Andromeda has friends by, now and again, but Teddy has become very boisterous, very active, very time-consuming as he has grown. I noticed tired lines around her eyes when I visited the other day, which had started me thinking about taking Teddy now and again. I hadn’t had a chance to mention it yet to Ron, or Molly and Arthur. Pondera’s concerns being so in line with my own have made me realise just how high a priority it is. The subject will have to be raised with care and tact; Andromeda has the pride of both a Black and a Slytherin, in addition to that of a woman who has made a life for herself in defiance of her family. She won’t take it kindly if I march in there and tell her she looks tired and isn’t as young as she used to be. She’d be offended, and twice as stubborn to stick it out alone.

Pondera’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “You look worried.”

“Oh! No. Sorry, just thinking,” I say. “The potion. I tend to drift off a bit, when I get stuck on a thought.”

“Have you had much trouble with that?” Pondera asks, and again I see that professional appraisal in her eyes.

“Not so much on the lower doses. The first week I was pretty foggy. I slept a lot.”

She nods. “That was intentional. Your body and mind needed a chance to rest, before you’d be ready to begin set things to rights. How is that going? Do you feel you’re making progress?”

“I _think_ so,” I say, slowly. “Something... changed, I think. Between me and Ron. Not a bad thing. Just... something that was between us, like a wall, I think it’s gone now. Or broken down a bit, and I can reach through. This sounds really stupid,” I conclude, shaking my head at myself and flushing.

“Was the wall one you had built, do you think? Or both of you?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head again. “I didn’t even know it was there, until it was gone. Maybe it was always there.”

“How do you feel without it?” Pondera continues, sipping from her cup.

“Uncertain. Safe. Frightened. And something that kind of hurts and feels really good at the same time. I don’t know what to call it. It’s just _big_.”

Pondera smiles, and there is something knowing in it, something that reminds me a little of the way Dumbledore used to smile at me when I’d done something he considered particularly clever for some reason, right before he sent me on my way with an explanation that was very much ‘need-to-know’, and therefore wasn’t very informative at all.

“All very normal feelings, at a time like this,” Pondera tells me, and before I know it, she’s changed the subject, arranged another appointment for later in the week, and is ushering me gently out.

Though I feel superficially reassured, I decide that people with knowing smiles and twinkling eyes who keep their thoughts to themselves are particularly annoying.

 _There should be a law_ , I decide, before going off to get myself some lunch.


	50. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry turns nineteen, surrounded by those he cares about.

“Harry?” Ron shouts, up the stairs.

“Coming!” I yell back.

I hadn’t meant to, but in the panic over Pig’s act of foolishness, the package containing Molly’s new cookbook had been shoved to the side and forgotten about. When I finally did remember it, it wasn’t really the time. Pig was better than he had been, but still not back to his old self quite yet. It didn’t feel tactful to pull it out when Ron was still watching Pig’s every move with anxiety. No matter how much he complained about him, Ron loved his owl. So, in the end, I’d decided to wait until my birthday, which was why I was wrestling with Spellotape, wrapping paper, and some Charmed ribbons that seemed to want to throttle me.

“Why are you… Oh.”

A Severing Charm that only lightly stings my skin cuts me free.

“Thanks,” I gasp.

“No problem,” Hermione replies, trying her best not to smirk.

“Looks fine as it is, doesn’t it?” I ask, with a hint of desperation. “Maybe a bit more tape…”

“It’s perfect,” Hermione says, steering me towards the door by my shoulders. “Everyone’s waiting for you. And besides, she won’t care if it’s badly wrapped.”

“Thanks,” I reply, torn between annoyance and amusement. I settle on the latter. Such a casual, unintentional put down is so familiar, so _Hermione_ , that it barely rankles. “I’ve missed you,” I say, looking sidelong at her, when we reach the second landing. 

A tender smile blossoms on her face. “I’ve missed you, too. I missed your letters.”

I flush guiltily. In the lead-up to my breakdown, I’d more or less forgotten about Hermione altogether. Our regular correspondence had narrowed to a trickle of letters solely from her, that half the time I hadn’t had the energy to even read.

“It’s all right,” she says quickly, before I can open my mouth to apologise. “I’m glad you’re doing well. You look better.”

“I feel better,” I reply. She smiles again, and briefly clasps my hand before we take the last few steps down into the kitchen. We nearly run smack bang into Ron, who was obviously on his way back up the stairs to find me.

“No ribbon?” he says, brow furrowed, looking down at the gift in my hand.

“No,” I say, pointedly. “Did you nick it from work?”

Ron blinks. “Yeah. Why?”

I rub at the scratch on my neck. “Next time, just buy some from Flourish and Blotts, and I’ll pay you back.”

***

The gathering is fairly small, as Weasley parties go. I can’t help but immediately notice the people who _aren’t_ here, who were two years ago, at my last party. The space next to George has been taken by Lee Jordan. They’re leaning their heads together and talking in what looks to be serious tones, until they both burst into peals of laughter, George wiping at his eyes.

Remus and Tonks’ places have been filled by Andromeda Tonks and Teddy, the former of whom is chatting politely to Percy. The latter immediately barrels over in a full-tilt run, cackling, to be swung up into Ron’s arms. Ron holds Teddy close to me, and he leans across to plant a sticky kiss against my cheek that smells of jam.

“What do you say?” Ron asks.

“Fankoo,” Teddy says promptly.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” he corrects.

When Teddy parrots the short phrase back approximately correctly, I thank him, and Ron obligingly tips the toddler upside down and goes for a short walk with Teddy’s head dangling somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. Teddy’s shrieks of delight are loud enough to make the nearest adults wince. Victoire raises a thin, complaining wail at the noise, and Fleur nonchalantly begins to breast feed her, disconcerting all of the males in the vicinity except Bill, who just looks a little soppy and smug. It’s hard to tell whether it’s over his wife, his child or the sight of them both together.

Hagrid is drinking scrumpy deeply from what looks like a small bucket, and conversing enthusiastically with Charlie about Norberta’s latest clutch. Arthur is having what I am sure is a very surreal conversation with Luna Lovegood, given the hand gestures she’s making. Ginny is sitting very close to Seamus, and judging by the flush on his cheeks, he’s either had a fair bit to drink already, or she’s doing something indecent to him under the table. My money would be on the latter. Hermione is walking towards Terry, who is looking downright terrified as Molly talks to him firmly, without the smile leaving her face. I suspect she is not-so-subtly grilling him about his intentions. 

In that moment, before the focus of everyone’s attention turns on me, I feel an almost overwhelming rush of affection. Not everyone I love is here, but it’s close enough. 

I readjust the wrapped book in my arms, walk up to Molly, and give her a hug and a kiss, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

She loves the book.

Terry looks so grateful for the reprieve, for a panicked moment I wonder if he’s about to kiss me.

***

The party winds up late. Victoire and Teddy are laid out early on a couch in the lounge room, but as it’s summer, and the next day is Sunday, only a handful of the guests have commitments on the morrow. In the end, the ‘adults’ leave politely one by one until only the ‘kids’ remain, and all of them stay on past midnight, talking and laughing, drinking and eating, except Luna, who wanders off home to help put her still-frail father to bed, and Hermione, who kisses me lightly on the cheek and leaves at about nine.

“We’re going to visit my grandparents tomorrow,” she explains, apologetically. “I’d stay longer if I could.” 

I assure her that it’s fine, and walk her out past the gate, where she and Terry Disapparate, hand in hand.

There are plenty of presents, the most surprising of which is the broom that Ron and George had gone halves in.

“But I told you...” I begin protesting to Ron, but unable to keep from caressing the highly polished handle of the Firebolt.

“I know,” Ron says, looking both sheepish and a bit proud. “But I’d been saving for ages. It’s only second-hand, mind. I couldn’t afford a new one, so it’s bound to have some quirks. You’ll probably need to get it tuned and adjusted properly before you fly it further than around the orchard.”

“Where on earth did you find one, second hand?” I ask, examining the brush, neatly tucking an out-of-line twig back into place. “They’re rare as hen’s teeth.”

“Bit of a team effort,” George says, taking another mouthful of Butterbeer. “Lee here knows a bunch of people in Magical Games and Sports, and Oliver Wood was keeping an eye out, too, in case anyone he knew was thinking about upgrading to the new Nimbus that’s supposed to be coming out in a couple of weeks. Turned out someone was, and he was willing to sell us this one on the cheap side because we’re friends of Oliver.”

“And because George sweet-talked the new saleswitch at Quality Quidditch Supplies into moving the guy’s name up to the head of the pre-order list,” Ron adds.

“Yeah, that too,” George agrees, unashamedly.

I run my hand down the Firebolt once more, shaft to tail, before saying, “Up!”

The handle smacks into my palm, and a shiver of excitement runs through me. “Back in a moment,” I say, shooting Ron a grin. In a fluid motion, I mount the broom, kick the ground and I’m _off_.

Despite Ron’s warning, I can’t help but take the broom out to Ottery St. Catchpole rather than just once around the orchard. I’m back within ten minutes, and allow myself to go into quite a steep dive before pulling up and landing lightly on the grass.

“Bloody showoff!” Charlie roars, good-naturedly. His face is ruddy, and the glass of firewhiskey in front of him is down to the dregs.

I laugh, slightly giddy with the rush, and pull Ron into a deep kiss. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“Where’s mine?” George asks, with mock indignation, when Ron and I part.

It’s probably the alcohol I’ve had to drink - the glass of champagne, the firewhiskey, the scrumpy that Charlie assured me would ‘put hair on my chest’ – but my traitorous brain slyly tells me, _It’s what he’d do._

One step, two, and I’m pulling George’s startled face down towards mine, and pressing my lips to his. Someone whistles, and there is a general flurry of laughter. And, surprisingly, George doesn’t shove me away, but simply cups my cheek gently with his hand, then pulls me into a bone-crushing hug after I pull back. I can feel his chest shaking with laughter beneath my cheek.

“Didn’t think you’d have the balls to actually do it,” he admits, before giving me one final squeeze, letting me go and cuffing me lightly across the back of the head. “Off with you, before Ron finally decides he wants to be territorial, and breaks every bone in my body.”

Ron does, indeed, look torn. He is biting his lip as though trying not to laugh, but his fists are clenched. I give him a sheepish look and shrug.

“’s what he would have done,” I say, repeating the words that had run through my head moments ago.

It breaks the ice, and he grins and cuffs me, too, before drawing me close to his chest, possessively.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice intense, and just a little bit uncertain.

“Yep,” I agree, pressing my lips against his neck. “What’s that then?” I ask, feeling cheeky. He’s half-hard. I rock my hips minutely against him, and his breath hitches. “Should I invite George upstairs with us?” I tease.

“It’s nothing to do with that,” he protests, sulkily.

“What then?” I ask, slipping a fingertip under his shirt, trailing it across his skin. It’s the blue silk one I bought him, months ago, for the party at the Three Broomsticks.

“I like watching you fly. I’ve _always_ liked watching you fly,” he mumbles, flushing.

“Like _that?_ ” I ask again, giving another subtle nudge against his groin. He shivers, despite the warmth of the evening.

“Yeah, like that,” he breathes, his eyes sinking closed.

“Oi, you two, knock it off!” Charlie shouts. “Our innocent little sister’s here... wait, where’s she?” he breaks off, looking around in vain.

George and Lee snicker in unison.

“Think you’ll find our pure and chaste sister led her man off by the cock about half an hour ago,” Bill says lazily. His hair is unbound and Fleur is sitting in his lap, weaving it into dozens of little plaits. She keeps bending to plant kisses on his nose, and I find myself idly wondering how soon it will be that they start working on giving Victoire a sibling. 

Then, I think of Ron playing gleefully with Teddy, holding newborn Victoire, his face transformed. I wonder how soon before he stops being content to be the uncle, and starts longing for children of his own. I think about what Healer Pondera said about me taking on more of a parental role with Teddy, and I know it’s going to happen within the next year, maybe sooner. I wonder if that will be enough for Ron. Knowing him the way I do, I doubt it.

“You all right?” Ron says, startling me out of my thoughts. “You look miserable.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” I say, quickly pasting on a bright smile. “Just daydreaming.”

I’ve missed the detail of Charlie’s little explosion. Only the volume of it had penetrated my reverie. He’s being pacified by George, Lee and another tumblerful of firewiskey, and is saying something about Ginny only being ‘a kid’ and definitely not being old enough to be the bossy semi-dominatrix the other two are assuring him that she is.

“You need to come home more often,” George says, shaking his head. “Fred and I had gotten used to her flirting with every boy in sight by the time she was thirteen.”

It could have turned into one of those moments where everyone froze and fumbled for what to say, or who to look at, but it doesn’t. Charlie just grizzles, “But she’s a baby! I should smack that Irish fella a good one for touching her!”

“Trust me,” George says, topping up Charlie’s glass. “He didn’t get there first, and he’ll be walking so stiffly tomorrow, you’ll feel sorry for him.”

Charlie’s gaze slowly travels from his whiskey glass up to my face. 

“Wasn’t me!” I squeak. “I didn’t touch her!”

He glares for a moment longer before bursting into quite unmanly giggles. “Course it wasn’t! Look at you!”

I give Charlie a two-fingered salute and Ron a hearty snog, being sure to use plenty of tongue, and a hand on his arse for good measure. I finally break away when the third Butterbeer cork bounces off my head, and George has started to wail something about being traumatised.

“You’re just jealous of what you can’t have,” Ron retorts, after taking a second to catch his breath.

I easily catch the next cork before it hits Ron in the face, and fire it back, smacking George smartly on the nose. This is too much for Charlie, who laughs so hard he slides off onto the grass, where he lies, wheezing.

George’s chin juts out, and he picks up an empty Butterbeer bottle by the neck and stands. He tosses me another cork, underarm, and I snatch it from the air without thinking about it.

“Go on, then,” he says with a beckoning gesture and a crooked grin.

Within ten minutes, a furious game of drunken, land-bound cork Quidditch is raging between Ron and myself, and Charlie and George. Bill and Fleur are cheering and laughing at particularly daring or spectacularly bad moves, and Lee is providing a commentary packed with obscenities and heavy bias.

I haven’t laughed so much since Hogwarts, and when Ron and I thrash the other two soundly, somewhere beneath the dizziness and the triumphant posturing, I feel something that’s a little bit like contentment.


	51. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night, one bed, two young men.

In the middle of the night, one week in late August, both Harry and I stir awake at the same time. What starts out as mostly-asleep repositioning progresses to semi-conscious snuggling, nuzzling and touching and _more…_

There’s a dreamy, other-worldly quality to the way we tumble into the familiar motions. It’s an effort to hold my eyes open at all, and my limbs are full of that heavy, early morning clumsiness, but my cock is wide awake and straining at the thin fabric of my boxers as I rub it back and forth, tantalisingly slowly, against Harry’s thigh. His palm is on my hip, his fingers cupping the curve of my arse, not pulling me closer, just resting there with reassuring firmness while his tongue explores my mouth.

I trail my fingers up and down the length of his spine, enjoying the little shivers he makes and the goose bumps that rise on his skin despite the warmth of the night. Every now and then I let my fingertips dip below the waistband, and I relish the little huff of air that escapes his lungs, and the forward jerk his hips give. I keep doing it until he whines against my mouth “Fucking tease!” in a voice that’s cracked and ragged from sleep and lust. He bites down on my lip just hard enough to make me jump, then I laugh breathlessly at his frustration.

“You want more, you’ll have to take these off then, won’t you?” I say, plucking at the cotton boxers.

“You first,” he growls, and by the time they’re down to my knees he’s got his hand around my cock, squeezing it firmly from root to tip in a practiced, perfect motion that makes me swear and thrust. Half a dozen strokes, no more, but it’s enough to leave me panting.

He wriggles and kicks his boxers off, then lies back and watches as I do the same. His nipples are erect and lickable, and I move down the bed a little to more easily suckle them. Neither of us are sleepy now. His breath rushes in and out, and his fingers card my hair. Whenever they catch in a tangle, I add a scrape of teeth to the sucking, and he gasps.

“Up,” I murmur, patting his thigh, and he hooks his leg high around my waist. His breaths accelerate, and he presses a series of quick kisses to the top of my head in his excitement. 

I reach out and grab my wand, and perform a couple of Charms; privacy, lubrication. We haven’t used the Protective charm in a while. When we got properly tested at St. Mungo’s and the Mediwitch confirmed that we were in a monogamous relationship, she told us that it wasn’t necessary now unless we changed partners or invited another person into our sexual relationship. As she easily looked about McGonagall’s age, we’d blushed and stammered and nodded a lot.

Over the month or so since Harry’s meltdown, things have changed between us. I think Harry’s aware of it; I know I certainly am, and no more so than when we’re in bed together, like this. While before I always waited for him to lead, now, particularly in the early stages of sex he seems to invite me in subtle ways to make the moves myself. Not with words, but with gasps and sighs and a new eagerness to submit that both thrills me and frightens me with the level of trust it implies. 

Harry is flushed and breathing rapidly as my fingertip drifts back and forth, in a steady line from tailbone to scrotum. It’s not long before he’s making needy little noises, culminating in a long, satisfied moan when I press two slick fingers inside him, right to the knuckles. He murmurs something unintelligible under his breath that I take to be appreciative when he bends his head forwards to kiss the top of my head hard, all chin and nose and tooth. I suck the closest nipple firmly, and his heel digs into my spine as his body flexes.

I finger him slowly. When I tilt my head to watch his face, his mouth is immediately on mine; his tongue insistent, his kisses demanding. His lips are red and plump from the kissing, and because he keeps worrying the lower one with his teeth. I imagine them wrapped around my cock, and grow harder still. I bend my head to bite a nipple gently, just to hear the sound he makes.

“ _Fuck..._ ” Harry moans. His hands tug at my hair, and I duck down to nibble the other.

He’s rocking his hips, fucking himself on my fingers. Any moment now, I’ll kiss my way down his chest and his stomach to swallow his cock and suck his orgasm from him. And then we’ll swap, and he’ll make me beg and squirm and come, and I’ll mentally thank everyone and thing I can think of for the gift of being alive, and wrapped up in him. At least, that’s what usually happens.

Harry’s hand moves from my hair down to my shoulder, and he pushes me over, flat on my back. He moves with me, and now he’s straddling my waist, still moving on my fingers rhythmically. My cock, heavy and hot, twitches of its own accord against my belly. I reach for it with my other hand, but Harry grabs my wrist and shakes his head firmly. Dropping it, he curls forward, planting both hands on the bed, to kiss my lips.

“I want you inside me,” he pants. “I want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s eyes are dark and wild, but his voice is as firm and steady as he can make it. He clenches around my fingers, and my cock gives a dangerous throb.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please. Say yes.”


	52. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And everything comes full circle.

I’m the most frightened and turned on I’ve ever been in my life. I’m pinned to the bed by my lover, my best friend, and he’s _still_ moving over me, gasping when my fingertips brush that place inside him just right. 

I want, I want, I want, and I _promised_.

“Yes,” I reply.

Harry’s kiss is short and savage. He straightens up again and taps my wrist lightly with a fingertip. I slide my fingers out from him easily and flex my hand to ease the inevitable cramping. Harry shuffles into position, and I bite my lip when Harry’s hand, slick with lube, strokes my cock gently, twice, then _oh..._

The incredible, constricting pressure of it nearly undoes me immediately. I can’t look away from Harry’s face. One moment, he hisses sharply and winces, the next, his eyes roll back and flutter with the pleasure of it. And so it goes, back and forth between the two extremes, as he lowers himself little bit by little bit, inch by inch, until I’m inside him as far as I can go.

His eyes open and meet mine, and I see my own shock mirrored there. His mouth is half open, and he’s gulping air. I’m barely breathing, and I’m sure I’m gripping his other hand hard enough to bruise it. I can feel his body quivering and readjusting around me, and we’re both drenched in sweat that has nothing to do with the weather.

And then he moves up, only slightly, but it’s enough to make us both moan. My free hand, sticky with lube, grips at his hip. He takes it in his then slides it between his legs to touch where we’re joined together. Though I know it might be the end of me, I crane my neck to look down, to see all but an inch of my cock inside him, inside my Harry.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/kath_ballantyne/pic/000dhzg4/) 'First' by 

Up a little more, then down. Up again, and down. My muscles begin to shake, and I feel the tell-tale pressure building already. Up further, until only the head of my cock is inside of him, then down, much more rapidly.

“Stop,” I pant. 

Harry frowns, confused. 

“You have to... or I’m gonna... not yet,” I attempt to explain.

Harry blinks, then smiles with understanding, and moves his wet hand up to stroke his own cock. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Harry touch himself. It’s unbelievable when I’m inside him as he’s doing it. He’s close; nearly as close as me, I can tell. His back is curling forwards a little, and he’s using that flick of the wrist that can make me come in about fifteen seconds flat, if he’s determined. 

Though he’s not moving up and down, he’s clenching around me in a way that is inching me closer, nevertheless. Harry’s letting out a high-pitched whimper in time with his strokes, and I can’t hold back anymore. I thrust up into him, and he cries out and grips my hand, jerking off faster than ever. Another thrust, and he groans deeply and squeezes me tight, so tight. A drop of wetness hits my lip. I lick it off automatically, and taste him.

The last three or four thrusts are hard, fast and erratic. Harry’s head lolls as though he’s drugged, and even his cries sound thick and slow with afterglow. His palm rubs across my stomach, smearing the mess there, and the shout I make when I come feels like it tears my throat as it forces its way from my lungs.

Harry very nearly collapses forward onto me, and I hold him close, so close, so tight.

***

It’s a long time before we move, and when we do, it’s the bare minimum needed to reach a wand to cleanse the sweat and come and lube from our bodies and the sheets so that we don’t have to lie in it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry mumbles, a short while later. He’s curled up against my chest, his hair tickling my nose.

“What about?” I ask, lazily, as I scratch lightly, back and forth, across his shoulder blades.

Harry’s hand is curved around my ribs, and he’s tracing the groove between them with a fingertip. For a long time, he doesn’t reply, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. 

“What d’you think about getting a place?” he asks, eventually. “A place of our own?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly a year and about fifteen hours ago, [I posted a story that was a little under 1,500 words long](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113323). It was the first Ron and Harry slash story I'd ever written, and the first Harry Potter fiction I'd ever posted. I wrote it as a tribute to mad_martha's wonderful domestic fic that made me feel like writing again, for the first time in years. I wasn't expecting much, except, hopefully, a handful of nice comments. I didn't expect the overwhelmingly positive response I got, or that that little story would spawn a complimentary sequel, and then a whole lot of prequel pieces that would turn into a series. That prequel series wound up being fifty two chapters long - roughly one for every week of this past year - and 68,267 words in length. It's by far the longest thing I've ever written. Most of it was unplanned - I'd sit down and just type and see what happened - but other things, like the very last scene of this final chapter, have been planned for a long time. That scene has been in my head, virtually as it is, ever since I decided I had a series on my hands. I've always known, since that moment, where this story would end, and I hope that it's an ending that those of you who've been reading this for the past year feel satisfied with.
> 
> Thank you so much, all of you, from those of you who've commented right from the start, through to those who've never commented, but have read and loved this story all the same. I'd hug you all in person if I could. You've been incredibly supportive of me and what I've tried to do here, and I'm a much better writer now because of each and every one of you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Simpatico](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116386) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21)
  * [Solace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116406) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21)
  * [Oblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116445) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21)




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